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diff --git a/old/62668-0.txt b/old/62668-0.txt deleted file mode 100644 index 51f85d7..0000000 --- a/old/62668-0.txt +++ /dev/null @@ -1,13551 +0,0 @@ -The Project Gutenberg EBook of The Life of Hector Berlioz as written by -himself in his Letters and Memoirs, by Hector Berlioz - -This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere at no cost and with -almost no restrictions whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or -re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included -with this eBook or online at www.gutenberg.org/license - - -Title: The Life of Hector Berlioz as written by himself in his Letters and Memoirs - -Author: Hector Berlioz - -Translator: Katharine F. Boult - -Release Date: July 16, 2020 [EBook #62668] - -Language: English - -Character set encoding: UTF-8 - -*** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE LIFE OF HECTOR BERLIOZ *** - - - - -Produced by Chuck Greif and the Online Distributed -Proofreading Team at https://www.pgdp.net (This book was -produced from scanned images of public domain material -from the Google Books project.) - - - - - - - - - - THE LIFE OF BERLIOZ - - _All rights reserved._ - - [Illustration: _Hector Berlioz._] - - - - - THE LIFE OF - - HECTOR BERLIOZ - - AS WRITTEN BY HIMSELF - - IN HIS - - LETTERS AND MEMOIRS - - [Illustration] - - TRANSLATED FROM THE FRENCH - WITH AN INTRODUCTION - - BY - - KATHARINE F BOULT - - [Illustration] - - LONDON - J. M. DENT & CO. - NEW YORK: E. P. DUTTON & CO. - 1903 - - - - -CONTENTS - - -CHAP. PAGE - -I. LA CÔTE SAINT-ANDRÉ 1 - -II. ESTELLE 5 - -III. MUSIC AND ANATOMY 10 - -IV. PARIS 16 - -V. CHERUBINI 22 - -VI. MY FATHER’S DECISION 27 - -VII. PRIVATION 31 - -VIII. FAILURE 37 - -IX. A NIGHT AT THE OPERA 42 - -X. WEBER 46 - -XI. HENRIETTE 50 - -XII. MY FIRST CONCERT 56 - -XIII. AN ACADEMY EXAMINATION 64 - -XIV. FAUST--CLEOPATRA 71 - -XV. A NEW LOVE 80 - -XVI. LISZT 91 - -XVII. A WILD INTERLUDE 96 - -XVIII. ITALIAN MUSIC 108 - -XIX. IN THE MOUNTAINS 113 - -XX. NAPLES--HOME 120 - -XXI. MARRIAGE 128 - -XXII. NEWSPAPER BONDAGE 135 - -XXIII. THE REQUIEM 143 - -XXIV. FRIENDS IN NEED 152 - -XXV. BRUSSELS--PARIS OPERA CONCERT 159 - -XXVI. HECHINGEN--WEIMAR 167 - -XXVII. MENDELSSOHN--WAGNER 177 - -XXVIII. A COLOSSAL CONCERT 187 - -XXIX. THE RAKOCZY MARCH 193 - -XXX. PARIS--RUSSIA--LONDON 200 - -XXXI. MY FATHER’S DEATH--MEYLAN 211 - -XXXII. POOR OPHELIA 216 - -XXXIII. DEAD SEA FRUIT 222 - -XXXIV. GATHERING TWILIGHT 230 - -XXXV. THE TROJANS 241 - -XXXVI. ESTELLE ONCE MORE 251 - -XXXVII. THE AFTERGLOW 272 - -XXXVIII. DARKNESS AND LIGHT 289 - - - - -ILLUSTRATIONS - - -BERLIOZ _Frontispiece_ - -THE VILLA MEDICI[A] _to face page_ 112 - -MONTMARTRE CEMETERY[A] ” ” 216 - -GRENOBLE[A] ” ” 257 - - - - -INTRODUCTION - - -Autobiography is open to the charge of egoism; somewhat unjustly since, -in writing of oneself, the personal note must predominate and, in the -case of a genius--sure of his goal and of his power to reach it--faith -in himself amounts to what, in a smaller man, would be mere conceit. - -This must be condoned and discounted for the sake of the priceless gift -of insight into a personality of exceptional interest. - -Berlioz’ Memoir, graphic as it is, cannot be called satisfactory as a -character-study. He says plainly that he is not writing confessions, -but is simply giving a correct account of his life to silence the -many false versions current at the time. Therefore, while describing -almost too minutely some of his difficulties and most of his -conflicts--whereby he gives the impression of living in uncomfortably -hot water--his very real heroism comes out only in his Letters, and -then quite unconsciously. - -The Memoir and Letters combined, however, make up an interesting and -fascinating picture of the heights, depths, limitations and curious -inconsistencies of this weird and restless human being. - -The music-ridden, brutal, undisciplined creature of the -Autobiography--more a blind, unreasoning force of Nature than an -ordinary being, subject to the restrictions of common humanity--could -not possibly be the man who was rich in the unswerving affection of -such widely different characters as Heine, Liszt, Ernst, Alexandre, -Heller, Hiller, Jules Janin, Dumas and Bertin; there must be something -unchronicled to account for their loyalty and patience. This something -is revealed in the Letters. - -There stands the real Berlioz--musician and poet; eager to drain life -to the dregs, be they sweet or bitter, to taste the fulness of being. -There we find a faithful record of thoughts, feelings, aspirations, and -a reflection of every passing mood. With one notable exception: even to -Ferrand he never admitted that the poor reception of _The Trojans_ (for -it met with but a _succès d’estime_) broke his heart. - - * * * * * - -As a record of events the Autobiography is deficient, and after 1848 -becomes a mere sketch. Thus, while writing pages of description of -orchestral players and musical institutions in German and Austrian -cities--quite suitable to his newspaper articles, but wearisome in -their iteration, and throwing no light upon himself--he is almost -entirely silent on his later trips to London. And the visits to -Baden--brightest days of his later years--are dismissed in a footnote. - -He lingers pathetically over young days, and hurries through the -dreary time close at hand. So, for a record of the daily conflict with -physical pain; of the overshadowed domestic life--none the easier to -bear in that it was partly his own fault; of the grinding, ever-present -shortness of money; of his wild and beautiful dreams; and of the large -place that Ferrand, Morel, Massart, Damcke and Lwoff (many of whom are -not named in the memoir) held in his heart--we turn to the Letters. - -The fearless, unbroken affection for his Jonathan--Humbert Ferrand; -the passionate love for his only son, mingled with impatience at -Louis’ youthful instability; the whole-hearted ungrudging appreciation -he extended to young and honest musicians--particularly to Camille -Saint-Saëns--are a grateful contrast to the gloomy defiance, -tornado-like fury, and eternal jeremiads over the hypocrisy and -hollowness of Paris that mar the Memoir. - - * * * * * - -Of his ill-starred first marriage he says but little, either in Memoir -or Letters. - -He and Miss Smithson were far too highly-strung for peaceful life to -be possible, even without the added friction of ill-health, want of -money (which, however, he says never daunted her), and the probable -misunderstandings so likely to arise from their different nationalities. - -It may be due to his special form of artistic temperament--that -well-worn apology for everything _déréglé_--that he could find room in -his heart, or head, for more than one love at a time, and could even -analyse and classify each. - -Within a month he bounds from the nethermost despair over the -uncertainties of his English divinity to the highest rapture over his -Camille, his Ariel, as he calls Marie Pleyel. - -Later on, when Marie is safely disposed of and Henriette is again -in the ascendant, while she vacillates between family and lover, he -seriously contemplates running off to Berlin with a poor girl whom he -has befriended, and whom, when Henriette finally relents, he calmly -hands over to Jules Janin to provide for. - -Of his second wife we hear but little, except that even affection did -not blind him to the defects in her musical gifts. For, on his first -German tour, he wrote to Morel: - -“Pity me! Marie wished to sing at Stuttgart, Mannheim and Hechingen. -The two first were bearable, but the last!... Yet she would not hear of -my engaging another singer.” - -Then he incidentally and whimsically mentions an innocent embryo -love-affair in Russia, and, in 1863, makes such tragic and mysterious -reference to an impossible love, that Ferrand, seriously alarmed, -thinks that Louis must have become more than usually troublesome. - -The influence of Estelle Fournier, which pervaded his whole life, comes -under a different category. He was without religion; she supplied -its place. She was his dream-lady, the Beatrice to his Dante, that -necessary worship which no great soul can forego. The proof of this is -that, when he met her again--old, sweet, dignified and still beautiful -to him--his allegiance never wavered; she was still the Mountain Star -of his childhood’s days. - -If his capacity for love was unlimited, it was not so with his sense of -humour, which was curiously circumscribed. Occasionally he rivals Heine -in power of seeing the odd side of his own divagations; his account of -his headlong flight from Rome to murder the whole erring Moke family -is inimitable. Yet he never discovers--as a man with a true sense of -humour would have done--that, in sharpening his rapier on Wagner and -the Music of the Future, he is meting out to a struggling composer -precisely the same measure that the Parisians had meted out to himself. -It speaks volumes for the strength of his friendship with Liszt that -even Wagnerism could not divide them. - - * * * * * - -La Côte Saint-André is a large village some thirty odd miles from -Grenoble; here, in a handsome house in the Rue de la République, Louis -Hector Berlioz was born. His home education and seclusion from healthy -school-life and the society of other children of his age ill-fitted him -for the battle of life, which began with his medical student career in -Paris. - -He describes the quarrels with his parents and stoppage of his -allowance in 1826, but passes lightly over the privations and -semi-starvation that undoubtedly laid the foundations of that internal -disease which embittered his latter years. His graphic account of those -early Parisian days is one of the most interesting parts of the Memoir. -He declared that his time in Italy, after gaining the Prix de Rome, was -musically barren. Yet this must be a mistake, since, to the memory of -his mountain wanderings he owed the inspiration of _Harold_. And even -if he apparently gained nothing in music, the experience of what to -avoid and the influence of beautiful scenery--to which he was always -peculiarly sensitive--counted for much in his general development. - -With his return to Paris his character took form, and he began his -life-long warfare against shams and empiricism. Newspaper work, hated -as it was, had a great share in moulding him. Each year he grew -more autocratic, and each year more hated for his uncompromising -sledge-hammer speech. But Ferrand was correct in saying that he could -write. His style is clear, incisive, perfect and even elegant French, -although, naturally, owing to the exigencies of its production, it is -often unequal. The first years of his marriage were ideal in spite -of their penury. The young couple had a côterie of choice friends, -amongst whom Liszt took a foremost place, but gradually the clouds -gathered, the rift within the lute widened, until a separation became -inevitable; even then Berlioz does not attempt--as so many men of his -impatient spirit might have done--to shirk responsibility and throw -upon others the burden of his hostage to fortune--an unsympathetic -invalid--but works the harder at his literary tread-mill to provide her -indispensable comforts. Poor Henriette’s side of the story is untold, -and one can but say: - - “The pity of it!” - -His troubles in Paris and the triumphs abroad that were their antidote -made up the rest of his stormy, restless pilgrimage; yet even in -ungrateful Paris he was not entirely neglected. - -He received the Legion of Honour, and although professing to despise -it, he always wore the ribbon. He was also chosen one of the Immortals, -apropos of which M. Alexandre tells a funny story. - -Alexandre was canvassing for him and found great difficulty in managing -Adolph Adam, who was from Berlioz as the poles asunder. - -First he went to Berlioz, who had flatly refused to make the slightest -concession to Adam’s prejudices. - -“Come,” said he, “do at least be amiable to Adam; you cannot deny that -he is a musician, at any rate.” - -“I don’t say he is not; but, being a great musician, how can he lower -himself to comic-opera? If he chose he could _write such music as I -do_.” - -Undismayed, Alexandre went to Adam. - -“You will give your vote to Berlioz, will you not, dear friend? -Although you cannot appreciate each other, you will own that he is a -thorough musician.” - -“Certainly, he is a great musician, a really great one, but his -music is awfully tiresome. Why!”--and little Adam straightened his -spectacles--“why, if he chose he could compose ... as well as I do. -But, seriously, he is a man of some importance, and I promise that, -after Clapisson, who already has our votes, Berlioz shall have the next -vacancy.” - -By a strange coincidence, the next _fauteuil_ was Adam’s own, to which -Berlioz was elected by nineteen votes. - -In his weak state of health, Berlioz was quite unfit to face the -innumerable worries incidental to the production of _The Trojans_. For -seven years it had been his chief object in life, and if, as he said, -he could have had everything requisite at his command, with unlimited -capital to draw upon--as Wagner had with Louis of Bavaria--all might -have been well. But to fight, contrive, temporise and propitiate all at -once was more than his enfeebled frame and irascible spirit could stand. - -Hence his great injustice to Carvalho, who, for Art’s sake, sacrificed -money, time and reputation to an extent that crippled him for many -years. - -Embittered by the failure of his opera, which ran for about twenty-five -nights, he shut himself up in his rooms with Madame Recio, his devoted -mother-in-law, and an old servant, and from that time visited only a -few intimate friends. - -One last shock Fate held in store. Louis died of fever abroad, and -for his lonely father life had no more savour--he simply existed, -with, however, two last flashes of the old bright flame. One when, -at Herbeck’s desire, he went to Vienna to conduct the _Damnation de -Faust_, and the other when the Grand Duchess Helen prevailed on him to -visit St Petersburg again. - -That was the real end. - -On leaving Russia he wandered drearily to Nice--a ghost revisiting its -old-time haunts--then made one last appearance at Grenoble, and so the -flame went out. He who had never peace in life was at rest at last. - - * * * * * - -Of his music this is not the place to speak. He has fully described his -own ideas, others have analysed them, and we are now concerned with the -man himself. - -To this is due the somewhat disjointed form of the translation--the -mixture of Memoir and Letters. It seemed the only possible way -of showing Berlioz in all his aspects and of keeping the record -chronologically correct. - -Yet we could wish that he, who had so much affinity with England and -its literature, could meet with due appreciation here. - -He has founded no school (in spite of Krebs’ prophecy), unless the -“programme music” now so much in vogue can be traced back to him, but, -beginning with Wagner, every orchestral composer since his day owes -him a debt of gratitude for his discoveries--his daring and original -combinations of instruments, and his magnificent grouping and handling -of vast bodies of executants. - - - - -CHRONOLOGY - - - 1803. Louis Hector Berlioz born. - - 1822. Medical student in Paris. - - 1824. Mass failed at Saint-Roch under Masson. - - 1825. Mass succeeded. - - 1826. Failed in preliminary examination for Conservatoire - competition. - - 1827. Passed preliminary and entered for competition. His _Orpheus_ - declared unplayable. - - 1828. Third attempt. _Tancred_ obtained second prize. Saw Miss - Smithson. Gave first concert. - - 1829. Fourth attempt. _Cleopatra._ No first prize given. - - 1830. Gained Prix de Rome with _Sardanapalus_. Marie Pleyel. - - 1831. Rome. _Symphonie Fantastique_ and _Lélio_. - - 1832. Concert at which Miss Smithson present on 9th December. - - 1833. Marriage. In November Henriette’s benefit and failure. - - 1834. Louis born. _Harold_ performed in November. - - 1835. _Symphonie Funèbre_ begun. - - 1836. _Requiem._ - - 1837. _Benvenuto Cellini_ finished. - - 1838. Paganini’s present. - - 1839. _Romeo and Juliet._ - - 1840. _Funèbre_ performed. First journey to Brussels. - - 1841. Festival at Paris Opera House. - - 1842-3. First tour in Germany. - - 1844. _Carnaval Romain._ Gigantic concert in the Palais de - l’Industrie. Nice. - - 1845. Cirque des Champs Elysées concert. Marseilles. Lyons. Austria. - - 1846. Hungary. Bohemia. In December, failure of _Damnation de - Faust_. - - 1847. Russia. Berlin. In November, London, as conductor at Drury - Lane. - - 1848. London. In July, Paris. Death of Dr Berlioz. - - 1849. _Te Deum_ begun. - - 1850. _Childhood of Christ_ begun. - - 1851. Member of Jury at London Exhibition. - - 1852. _Benvenuto Cellini_ given by Liszt at Weimar. In March, - London, _Romeo and Juliet_. May, conducted Beethoven’s _Choral - Symphony_. June, _Damnation de Faust_. - - 1854. March, Henriette died. Dresden. Marriage with Mdlle. Récio. - - 1855. North German tour. Brussels. _Te Deum._ In June, London. - _Imperial Cantata._ On Jury of Paris Exhibition. - - 1856. _The Trojans_ begun. - - 1858. Concerts in the Salle Herz brought in some thousands of - francs. - - 1861. Baden. - - 1862. Marie Berlioz died. _Beatrice and Benedict_ performed at - Baden. - - 1863. Weimar. _Childhood of Christ_ at Strasburg. In November, _The - Trojans_. - - 1864. In August, made officer of Legion of Honour. Dauphiny. - Meylan. Estelle Fournier. - - 1865. Geneva, to see Estelle. - - 1866. In December to Vienna, to conduct _Damnation de Faust_. - - 1867. In June Louis died. In November, Russia. - - 1868. Russia. Paris. Nice. In August, Grenoble. - - 1869. Died 8th March. - - - - -THE LIFE OF BERLIOZ - - - - -I - -LA CÔTE SAINT-ANDRÉ - - -Decidedly ours is a prosaic century. On no other grounds can my wounded -vanity account for the humiliating fact that no auspicious omens, no -mighty portents--such as heralded the birth of the great men of the -golden age of poetry--gave notice of my coming. It is strange, but -true, that I was born, quite unobtrusively, at La Côte Saint-André, -between Vienne and Grenoble, on the 11th December 1803. - -As its name implies, La Côte Saint-André lies on a hillside overlooking -a plain--wide, green, and golden--of which the dreamy majesty is -accentuated by the mountain belt that bounds it on the southeast, being -in turn crowned by the mystic glory of distant Alpine glaciers and -snowy peaks. - -Needless to say, I was brought up in the Catholic faith. This--of all -religions the most charming, since it gave up burning people--was for -seven years the joy of my life, and although we have since fallen out, -I still retain my tender memories of it. - -Indeed, so greatly am I in sympathy with its creed that, had I had the -misfortune to be born in the clutches of one of the dreary schisms -hatched by Luther and Calvin, I should certainly, at the first -awakening of my poetic instinct, have thrown off its benumbing grasp -and have flung myself into the arms of the fair Roman. - -My sweet remembrance of my first communion is probably due to my having -made it with my elder sister at the Ursuline convent, where she was a -boarder. - -At early morn, accompanied by the almoner, I made my way to that holy -house. The soft spring sunlight, the murmuring poplars swaying in -the whispering breeze, the dainty fragrance of the morning air, all -worked upon my sensitive mind, until, as I knelt among those fair white -maidens, and heard their fresh young voices raised in the eucharistic -hymn, my whole soul was filled with mystic passion. Heaven opened -before me--a heaven of love and pure delight, a thousand times more -glorious than tongue has told--and thus I gave myself to God. - -Such is the marvellous power of genuine melody, of heart-felt -expression! Ten years later I recognised that air--so innocently -adapted to a religious ceremony--as “When my beloved shall return,” -from d’Aleyrac’s opera _Nina_. - -Dear, dead d’Aleyrac! Even your name is forgotten now! - -This was my musical awakening. - -Thus abruptly I became a saint, and such a desperate saint! Every day I -went to mass, every Sunday I took the communion, every week I went to -confession in order to say to my director: - -“Father, I have done nothing.” - -“Well, my son,” would the worthy man reply, “continue.” - -I followed his advice strictly for many years. - -Louis Berlioz, my father, was a doctor. It is not my place to sing his -praises. I need, therefore, only say that he was looked upon as an -honoured friend, not only in our little town, but throughout the whole -country side. Feeling acutely his responsibility as the steward of a -difficult and dangerous profession, every minute he could spare from -his sick people was given to arduous study, and never did the thought -of gain turn him aside from his disinterested service to the poor and -needy. - -In 1810, the medical society of Montpellier offered a prize for the -best treatise on a new and important point in medicine, which was -gained by my father’s monograph on Chronic Diseases. It was printed in -Paris, and many of its theories adopted by physicians, who had not the -common honesty to acknowledge their source. This somewhat surprised my -dear, unsophisticated father, but he only said, “If truth prevails, -nothing else matters.” - -Now (I write in 1848) he has long since ceased to practise, and spends -his time in reading and peaceful thought. - -Of the highest type of liberal mind, he is entirely without social, -political, or religious prejudices; for instance, having promised -my mother to leave my faith undisturbed, I have known him carry his -tolerance so far as to hear me my catechism. This is considerably more, -I must own, than I could do were my own son in question. - -For many years my father has suffered from an incurable disease of -the stomach. He scarcely eats at all, and nothing but constant and -increasing doses of opium keep him alive. He has told me that, years -ago, worn out by the prolonged agony, he took thirty-two grains at once. - -“It was not as a cure that I took it,” he said, significantly. - -But, strange to say, this terrific dose of poison, instead of killing -him, gave him for some time a respite from his sufferings. - -When I was ten years old he sent me to a priest’s school in the town -to learn Latin, but the result not proving satisfactory he resolved to -teach me himself. - -And with the most untiring patience, the most intense care, my father -became my instructor in history, literature, languages, geography--even -in music. - -Yet I must own that I do not think a solitary education like mine -half as good for a boy as ordinary school life. Children brought up -among relations, servants, and specially chosen friends only, do not -get accustomed to the rough-and-tumble that best fits them to face -the world. Real life is to them a dosed book, their angles are not -rubbed off, and I know that, in my own case, at twenty-five I was still -nothing but an awkward, ignorant child. - -Indulgent as my father was over my work, yet, for a long while, he -was unable to make me love the classics. It seemed impossible to me -to concentrate my thoughts long enough to learn by heart a few lines -of Horace and Virgil; impatient of the beaten track my wayward mind -flew off to the entrancing unknown world of the atlas, roving gaily -through the labyrinth of islands, capes, and straits of the Pacific and -the Indian Archipelago. This was the origin of my love for travel and -adventure. - -My father truly said of me: - -“He knows every isle of the South Seas, but cannot tell me how many -departments there are in France!” - -Every book of travel in the library was pressed into my service, and -I should most certainly have run away to sea if we had lived in a -seaport. My son inherits my taste. He chose the navy for his profession -long ere he saw the sea. May he do honour to his choice! - -However, in the end the love of poetry and appreciation of its -beauty awoke in me. The first spark of passion that fired my heart -and imagination was kindled by Virgil’s magnificent epic, and I well -remember how my voice broke as I tried to construe aloud the fourth -book of the Æneid. One day, stumbling along, I came to the passage -where Dido--the presents of Æneas heaped around her--gives up her life -upon the funeral pyre; the agony of the dying queen, the cries of her -sister, her nurse, her women; the horror of that scene that struck pity -even to the hearts of the Immortals, all rose so vividly before me that -my lips trembled, my words came more and more indistinctly, and at the -line-- - - “Quæsivit cœlo lucem ingemuitque reperta,” - -I stopped dead. - -Then my dear father’s delicate tact stepped in. Apparently noticing -nothing, he said, gently: - -“That will do for to-day, my boy; I am tired.” - -And I tore away to give vent to my Virgilian misery unmolested. - - - - -II - -ESTELLE - - -Will it be credited that when I was only twelve years old, and even -before I fell under the spell of music, I became the victim of that -cruel passion so well described by the Mantuan? - -My mother’s father, who bore a name immortalised by -Scott--Marmion--lived at Meylan, about seven miles from Grenoble. This -district, with its scattered hamlets, the valley of the winding Isère, -the Dauphiny mountains that here join a spur of the Alps, is one of the -most romantic spots I know. Here my mother, my sisters, and I usually -passed three weeks towards the end of summer. - -Now and then my uncle, Felix Marmion, who followed the fiery track of -the great Emperor, would pay a flying visit during our stay, wreathed -with cannon smoke and ornamented with a fine sabre cut across the face. -He was then only adjutant-major in the Lancers; but young, gallant, -ready to lay down his life for one look from his leader, he believed -the throne of Napoleon as stable as Mont Blanc. His taste for music -made him a great addition to our gay little circle, for he both sang -and played the violin well. - -High over Meylan, niched in a crevice of the mountain, stands a small -white house, half-hidden amidst its vineyards and gardens, behind which -rise the woods, the barren hills, a ruined tower, and St Eynard--a -frowning mass of rock. - -This sweet secluded spot, evidently predestined to romance, was the -home of Madame Gautier, who lived there with two nieces, of whom the -younger was called Estelle. Her name at once caught my attention from -its being that of the heroine of Florian’s pastoral _Estelle and -Némorin_, which I had filched from my father’s library, and read a -dozen times in secret. - -Estelle was just eighteen--tall, graceful, with large, grave, -questioning eyes that yet could smile, hair worthy to ornament the -helmet of Achilles, and feet--I will not say Andalusian, but pure -Parisian, and on those little feet she wore ... pink slippers! - -Never before had I seen pink slippers. Do not smile; I have forgotten -the colour of her hair (I fancy it was black), yet, never do I recall -Estelle but, in company with the flash of her large eyes, comes the -twinkle of her dainty pink shoes. I had been struck by lightning. To -say I loved her comprises everything. I hoped for, expected, knew -nothing but that I was wretched, dumb, despairing. By night I suffered -agonies, by day I wandered alone through the fields of Indian corn, or -sought, like a wounded bird, the deepest recesses of my grandfather’s -orchard. - -Jealousy--dread comrade of love--seized me at the least word spoken -by a man to my divinity; even now I shudder at the clank of a spur, -remembering the noise of my uncle’s while dancing with her. - -Every one in the neighbourhood laughed at the piteously precocious -child, torn by his obsession. Perhaps Estelle laughed too, for she soon -guessed all. - -One evening, I remember, there was a party at Madame Gautier’s, and we -played prisoner’s base. The men were bidden choose their partners, and -I was purposely told to choose first. But I dared not, my heart-beats -choked me; I lowered my eyes unable to speak. They were beginning to -tease me when Estelle, smiling down from her beauteous height, caught -my hand, saying: - -“Come! I will begin; I choose Monsieur Hector.” - -But ah! she laughed! - -Does time heal all wounds; do other loves efface the first? Alas, no! -With me time is powerless. Nothing wipes out the memory of my first -love. - -I was thirteen when we parted. I was thirty when, returning from Italy, -I passed near St Eynard again. My eyes filled with tears at the sight -of the little white house--the ruined tower. I loved her still! - -On reaching home I heard that she was married; but even that could not -cure me. A few days later my mother said: - -“Hector, will you take this letter to the coach-office. It is for a -lady who will be in the Vienne diligence. While they change horses ask -the guard for Madame F., give her this letter, and look carefully at -her. You may recognise her, although you have not met for seventeen -years.” - -Without suspicion I went on my errand and asked for Madame F. “I am -she, Monsieur,” said a voice that thrilled my heart. “It is Estelle,” -said my heart. Estelle! still lovely, still the nymph, the hamadryad -of Meylan’s green slopes. Still lovely with her proud carriage, her -glorious hair, her dazzling smile. But ah! where were the little pink -shoes? She took the letter. Did she know me? I could not tell, but I -returned home quite upset by the meeting. My mother smiled at me. - -“So Némorin has not forgotten his Estelle,” she said. _His_ Estelle! -Mother! mother! was that trick quite fair? - - * * * * * - -With love came music; when I say music I mean composition, for of -course I had long since been able to sing at sight and to play two -instruments, thanks, needless to say, to my father’s teaching. - -Rummaging one day in a drawer, I unearthed a flageolet, on which I at -once tried to pick out “Malbrook.” Driven nearly mad by my squeaks, my -father begged me to leave him in peace until he had time to teach me -the proper fingering of the melodious instrument, and the right notes -of the martial song I had pitched on. At the end of two days I was able -to regale the family with my noble tune. - -Now, how strikingly this shows my marvellous aptitude for wind -instruments. What a fruitful subject for a born biographer! - -My father next taught me to read music, explaining the signs -thoroughly, and soon after he gave me a flute. At this I worked so hard -that in seven or eight months I could play quite fairly. - -Wishing to encourage my talent, he persuaded several well-to-do -families of La Côte to join together and engage a music-master from -Lyons. He was successful in getting a second violin, named Imbert, to -leave the Théâtre des Célestins and settle in our outlandish little -town to try and musicalise the inhabitants, on condition that we -guaranteed a certain number of pupils and a fixed salary for conducting -the band of the National Guard. - -I improved fast, for I had two lessons a day; having also a pretty -soprano voice I soon developed into a pleasant singer, a bold reader, -and was able to play Drouet’s most intricate flute concertos. My master -had a son a few years older than myself, a clever horn-player, with -whom I became great friends. One day, as I was leaving for Meylan, he -came to see me. - -“Were you going without saying good-bye?” he asked. “You may never see -me again.” - -His gravity struck me at the moment, but the joy of seeing Meylan and -my glorious _Stella montis_ quite put him out of my head. But on my -return home my friend was gone; he had hanged himself the very day -I left, and no one has ever been able to discover why. It was a sad -home-coming for me! - -Among some old books I found d’Alembert’s edition of Rameau’s -_Harmony_, and how many weary hours did I not spend over those laboured -theories, trying vainly to evolve some sense out of the disconnected -ideas. Small wonder that I did not succeed, seeing that one needs to -be a past master of counterpoint and acoustics before one can possibly -grasp the author’s meaning. It is a treatise on harmony for the use of -those only who know all about it already. - -However, I thought I could compose, and began by trying arrangements of -trios and quartettes that were simply chaos, without form, cohesion, -or common sense. Then, quite undaunted, I listened carefully to the -quartettes by Pleyel, that our music-lovers performed on Sundays, and -studied Catel’s _Harmony_, which I managed to buy. Suddenly I rent -asunder the veil of the inmost temple, and the mystery of form and of -the sequence of chords stood revealed. I hurriedly wrote a pot-pourri -in six parts on Italian airs, and, as the harmony seemed tolerable, I -was emboldened to compose a quintette for flute, two violins, viola, -and ’cello, which was played by three amateurs, my master, and myself. - -This was indeed a triumph though, unfortunately, my father did not seem -as pleased as my other friends. Two months later another quintette was -ready, of which he wished to hear the flute part before we performed it -in public. Like most provincial amateurs, he thought he could judge the -whole by a first-violin part, and at one passage he cried: - -“Come now! That is something like music.” - -But alas! this elaborate effusion was too much for our -performers--particularly the viola and ’cello--they meandered off at -their own sweet will. Result--confusion. As this happened when I was -twelve and a half, the writers who say I did not know my notes at -twenty are just a little out. Later on I burnt[1] the two quintettes, -but it is strange that, long afterwards in Paris, I used the very -_motif_ that my father liked for my first orchestral piece. It is the -air in A flat for the first violin in the allegro of my overture to the -_Francs-Juges_. - - - - -III - -MUSIC AND ANATOMY - - -After the death of his son, poor Imbert went back to Lyons; his place -was taken by Dorant, a man of far higher standing. He was an Alsacian, -and played almost every instrument, but he excelled in clarinet, -’cello, violin, and guitar. My elder sister--who had not a scrap of -musical instinct, and could never read the simplest song, although she -had a charming voice and was fond of music--learnt the guitar with -Dorant and, of course, I must needs share her lessons. But ere long our -master, who was both honest and original, said bluntly to my father: - -“Monsieur, I must stop your son’s guitar lessons.” - -“But why? Is he rude to you or so lazy that you can do nothing with -him?” - -“Certainly not. Only it is simply absurd for me to pretend to teach -anyone who knows as much as I do myself.” - -So behold me! Past master of those three noble instruments--flageolet, -flute, and guitar! - -Can anyone doubt my heaven-sent genius or that I should be capable of -writing the most majestic orchestral works, worthy of a musical Michael -Angelo! Flute, guitar, flageolet!!! I never was any good at other -instruments. Oh yes! I am wrong, I am not at all bad at the side-drums. - -My father would never let me learn the piano--if he had, no doubt I -should have joined the noble army of piano thumpers, just like forty -thousand others. Not wishing me to be a musician, he, I believe, feared -the effect of such an expressive instrument on my sensitive nature. -Sometimes I regret my ignorance, yet, when I think of the ghastly -heap of platitudes for which that unfortunate piano is made the daily -excuse--insipid, shameless productions, that would be impossible if -their perpetrators had to rely, as they ought, on pencil and paper -alone--then I thank the fates for having forced me to compose silently -and freely by saving me from the tyranny of finger-work--that grave of -original thought. - -As with most young folks, my early work was downright gloomy, it simply -grovelled in melancholy. Minor keys were rampant. I knew it was a -mistake, but it seemed impossible to escape from the black crape folds -that had enshrouded my soul ever since the Meylan affair. - -The natural result of constantly reading Florian’s _Estelle_ was that I -ended by setting parts of that mawky pastoral to music. - -The faded old-time poetry comes back to me as I write here in London, -in the pale spring sunshine. Torn as I am by anxiety, worried by -sordid, petty obstacles, by stupid opposition to my plans, it is -strange to recall the sickly-sentimental words of a song I wrote -in despair at leaving the Meylan woods, which were “lighted by the -eyes”--and, may I add, by the little pink slippers of my cruel lady -love. - - “I am going to leave forever - This dear land and my sweet love, - So alas! must fond hearts sever, - As my tears and grief do prove! - River, that has served so gaily - To reflect her lovely face, - Stop your course to tell her, daily, - I no more shall see this place!” - -Although it joined the quintettes in the fire before I went to Paris, -yet in 1829, when I planned my _Symphonie Fantastique_, this little -melody crept humbly back into my mind; it seemed to me to voice so -perfectly the crushing weight of young and hopeless love that I -welcomed it home and enshrined it, without any alteration, for the -first violins in the largo of the opening movement--_Rêveries_. - -But the fatal hour of choosing a profession drew rapidly nearer. My -father made no secret of his intention that I should follow in his -footsteps and become a doctor, since this he considered the finest -career in the world; I, on the other hand, made no secret of my opinion -that it was, to me, the most repulsive. - -Without knowing exactly what I did want, I was absolutely certain that -I did _not_ want to be tied to the bedsides of sick people, to pass my -days in hospitals and operating theatres, and I determined that no -power on earth should turn me into a doctor. - -My resolve was intensified by the lives of Gluck and Haydn that I read -about this time in the “Biographie Universelle.” “How glorious,” I -cried, “to live for Art, to spend one’s life in her beautiful service!” -and then came a mere trifle which threw open the gates of that paradise -for which I had been so blindly groping. - -As yet I had never seen a full score; all I knew of printed music was a -few scraps of solfeggi with figured bass or bits of operas with a piano -accompaniment. But one day I stumbled across a piece of paper ruled -with twenty-four staves, and, in a flash, I saw the splendid scope this -would give for all kinds of combinations. - -“What orchestration I might get with that!” I said, and from that -minute my music-love became a madness equalled only in force by my -aversion to medicine. - -As I dared not tell my parents, it happened that by means of this very -passion for music, my father tried decisive measures to cure me of what -he called my “babyish antipathy” to his loved profession. - -Calling me into his study where Munro’s _Anatomy_, with its life-size -pictures of the human framework, lay open on the table, he said: - -“See, my boy, I want you to work hard at this. I cannot believe that -you will let unreasoning prejudice stand in the way of my wishes. If -you will do your best, I will order you the very finest flute to be got -in Lyons, with all the new keys.” - -What could I say? My father’s gravity, my love and respect for him, the -temptation of the long-coveted flute, were altogether too much for me. -Muttering a strangled “Yes,” I rushed away to throw myself on my bed in -the depths of misery. - -Be a doctor! Learn to dissect! Help in horrible operations! Bury -myself in the hideous realities of hospitals, wounds, and death, when I -might tread the clouds with the immortals!--when music and poetry wooed -me with open arms and divine songs. - -No, no, no! Such a tragedy _could_ not happen! - -Yet it did. - -My cousin, A. Robert--now one of the first doctors in Paris--was to -share my father’s lessons. Unluckily he played the violin well, being a -member of my quintette party, and, of course, we spent more time over -music than over osteology. Still he worked so hard at home that he was -always ready with his demonstrations, and I was not. Hence frequent -scoldings and the vials of my father’s wrath poured out on my poor -head. Nevertheless, by hook or by crook, I managed to learn all that my -father could teach me without dissections, and when I was nineteen, I -consented to go with Robert to Paris to embark on a medical career. - - * * * * * - -Before beginning to tell of the deadly conflict that, almost -immediately on my arrival in Paris, I began with ideas, people and -things generally, and which has continued unremittingly up to this day, -I must have a short breathing space. - -Moreover, to-day--the 10th April 1848--has been chosen for the great -Chartist demonstration. Perhaps, in a few hours, these two hundred -thousand men will have upset England, as the revolutionists have upset -the rest of Europe, and this last refuge will have failed me. I shall -know soon. - -8 P.M.--Chartists are rather a decent sort of -revolutionists. Those powerful orators--big guns--took the chair, and -their mere presence was so convincing that speech was superfluous. The -Chartists quite understood that the moment was not propitious for a -revolution, and they dispersed quietly and in order. My good folks, -you know as much about organising an insurrection as the Italians do -about composing symphonies. - -_12th July._--No possibility of writing for the last three months, and -now I am going back to my poor France--mine own country, after all! -I am going to see whether an artist can live there, or how long it -will take him to die amid those ruins beneath which Art lies--crushed, -bleeding, dead! - -Farewell, England! - -_France, 16th July._--Home once more. Paris has buried her dead. The -paving-stones, torn up for barricades, are replaced; but for how long? - -The Faubourg Saint-Antoine is one mass of desolation and ruin; even -the Goddess of Liberty on the Bastille column has a bullet through -her. Trees, maimed and uprooted; houses tottering to a fall; squares, -streets, quays, still palpitating from the riot--all bear witness to -the horrors they have suffered. - -Who could think of Art at such a time! Theatres are closed, artists -undone, professors idle, pupils fled, pianists become street musicians, -painters sweep the gutters, and architects mix mortar in the national -work-sheds. - -Although the National Assembly has voted a subsidy to the theatres, and -some help to the poorest of the artists, what is that among so many? - -Take a first violin of the opera, for instance; his pay is nine hundred -francs a year, which is eked out by private lessons. What chance has he -of saving? Transportation would be a boon to him and his colleagues, -for they might earn a living in America, Sydney, or the Indies. But -even this is denied them. They fought _for_ the Government and against -the insurgents, and being only deserving poor instead of malefactors, -they cannot even claim this last favour--it is reserved for criminals. - -Surely this way--in this awful, hideous confusion of just and unjust, -of good and evil, of truth and untruth--this way doth madness lie! - -I must write on and try to forget. - - - - -IV - -PARIS - - -When Robert and I got to Paris in 1822, I loyally kept my promise to -my father by studying nothing but medicine. My first trial came when -my cousin, telling me that he had bought a _subject_, took me to the -hospital dissecting room. - -But the foul air, the grinning heads, the scattered limbs, the bloody -cloaca in which we waded, the swarms of ravenous rats and sparrows -fighting for the debris of poor humanity, overwhelmed me with such a -paroxysm of wild terror that, at one bound, I was through the nearest -window, and tearing home as if Death and the Devil were at my heels. - -The following night and day were indescribable. Hell seemed let loose -upon me, and I felt that no power on earth should drag me back to that -Gehenna. The wildest schemes for evading my horrible fate--each madder -than the last--chased each other through my burning brain; but finally, -worn out and despairing, I yielded to Robert’s persuasion, and went -back to the charnel house. - -Strange to say, this time I felt nothing but cold, impersonal disgust, -worthy of an old soldier in his fiftieth battle. I actually got to the -point of ferretting in some poor dead creature’s chest for scraps of -lung to feed the sparrow-ghouls of this unsavoury den, and when Robert -said, laughing: - -“Hallo! you are getting quite civilised. Giving the birds their meat in -due season!” - -I retorted: “And filling all things living with plenteousness,” as I -threw a blade-bone to a wretched famished rat that sat up watching me -with anxious eyes. - -Life, however, had some compensations. - -Some secret affinity drew me to my anatomy demonstrator, Professor -Amussat, probably because he, like myself, was a man of one idea, -and was as passionately devoted to his science--medicine--as I to -my beloved art, music. His marvellous discoveries have brought him -world-wide fame, but, insatiable searcher after truth as he is, he -takes no rest. He is a genius, and I am honoured in being allowed to -call him friend. - -I also enjoyed the chemistry lectures of Gay-Lussac, of Thénard -(physics) and, above all, the literature course of Andrieux, whose -quiet humour was my delight. - -Drifting on in this sort of dumb quiescence, I should probably have -gone to swell the disastrous list of commonplace doctors, had I not, -one night, gone to the Opera. It was Salieri’s _Danaïdes_. - -The magnificent setting, the blended harmonies of orchestra and chorus, -the sympathetic and beautiful voice of Madame Branchu, the rugged force -of Dérivis, Hypermnestra’s air--which so vividly recalled Gluck’s -style, made familiar to me by the scraps of _Orpheus_ I had found in -my father’s library--all this, intensified by the sad and voluptuous -dance-music of Spontini, sent me up to fever-pitch of excitement and -enthusiasm. - -I was like a young man, who, never having seen any boat but the -cockle-shells on the mountain tarns of his homeland, is suddenly put -on board a great three-decker in the open ocean. I could not sleep, of -course, and consequently my next day’s anatomy lesson suffered, and -to Robert’s frenzied expostulations I responded with airs from the -_Danaïdes_, humming lustily as I dissected. - -Next week I went to hear Méhul’s _Stratonice_ with Persuis’ ballet -_Nina_. I did not think much of the music, with the exception of the -overture, but I was greatly affected by hearing Vogt play on the _cor -anglais_ the very air sung, years before, by my sister’s friends at my -first communion in the Ursuline chapel. A man sitting near told me that -it was taken from d’Aleyrac’s opera _Nina_. - -In spite of this double life of mine and the hours spent in brooding -over my hard fate, I stuck doggedly to my promise for some time longer. -But, hearing that the Conservatoire library, with its wealth of scores, -was open to the public, I could not resist the temptation to go and -learn more of my adored Gluck. This gave the death-blow to my promise; -music claimed me for her own. - -I read and re-read, I copied, I learnt Gluck’s scores by heart, I -forgot to eat, drink, or sleep, and when at last I managed to hear -_Iphigenia in Tauris_, I swore that, despite father, mother, relations -and friends, a musician I would be and nothing else. - -Without waiting till my courage oozed away, I wrote to my father -telling him of my decision, and begging him not to oppose me. At first -he replied kindly, hoping that I should see the error of my ways; but, -as time went on, he realised that I was not to be persuaded, and our -letters grew more and more acrimonious, until they ended in a perfect -bombardment of mutual passion and recrimination. - -In the midst of the storm I started composing, and wrote, amongst other -things, an orchestral cantata on Millevoye’s poem _The Arab Horse_. - -I also, in the Conservatoire library, made friends with Gerono, a -pupil of Lesueur, and, to my great joy, he offered to introduce me to -his master, in the hope that I might be allowed to join his harmony -class. Armed with my cantata, and with a three-part canon as a sort of -aide-de-camp, I appeared before him. Lesueur most kindly read through -the cantata carefully, and said: “You have plenty of dramatic force, -plenty of feeling, but you do not know how to write yet. The whole -thing is so crammed with mistakes that it would be simply waste of time -for me to point them out. Get Gerono to teach you harmony--just enough -to make my lectures intelligible--then I will gladly take you as a -pupil.” - -Gerono readily agreed, and, in a few weeks, I had mastered Lesueur’s -theory, based on Rameau’s chimera--the resonance of the lower chords, -or what he was pleased to call the bass figure--as if thick strings -were the only vibrating bodies in the world, or rather as if their -vibrations could be taken as the fundamental basis of vibration for all -sonorous bodies! - -However, I saw from Gerono’s manner of laying down the law that I must -swallow it whole, since it was religion and must be blindly followed, -or else say good-bye to my chance of joining Lesueur’s class. And such -is the force of example that I ended by believing in it so thoroughly -and honestly that Lesueur considered me one of his most promising and -fervent disciples. - -Do not think me ungrateful for his kindliness and for the affection he -shewed me up to his last hour, but, oh! the precious time wasted in -learning and unlearning his mouldy, antediluvian theories. - -At one time I really did admire his little oratories, and it grieved -me sorely to find my admiration fading, slowly and surely. Now I can -hardly bear to look at one of his scores; it is to me as the portrait -of a dear friend, long loved, lost and lamented. - -When I compare to-day with that far-off time when, regularly each -Sunday, I went to the Tuileries chapel to hear them, how old, how -tired, how bereft of illusions I feel. That was the day of great -enthusiasms, of rich musical passions, of beautiful dreams, of -ineffable, infinite joys. - -As I usually arrived early at the Chapel Royal, my master would -spend the time before service began in explaining the meaning of his -composition. It was as well, for the music had no earthly connection -with the words of the mass! - -Lesueur inclined mostly to the sweet pastorals of the Old -Testament--idylls of Naomi, Ruth, Rachel--and I shared his taste. The -calm of the unchanging East, the mysterious grandeur of its ruins, -its majestic history, its legends--these were the magnetic pole of my -imagination. He often allowed me to join him in his walks, telling -me of his early struggles, his triumphs and the favour of Napoleon. -He even let me, up to a certain point, discuss his theories, but -we usually ended on our common meeting-ground of Gluck, Virgil and -Napoleon. After these long talks along the edge of the Seine or under -the leafy shade of the Tuileries gardens, I would leave him to take the -solitary walks which had become to him a necessity of daily life. - -Some months after I had become his pupil, but before my admission -to the Conservatoire, I took it into my head to write an opera, -and nothing would do but that I must get my witty literary master, -Andrieux, to write me a libretto. I cannot remember what I wrote to -him, but he replied: - - “MONSIEUR,--Your letter interests me greatly. You cannot - but succeed in the glorious art you have chosen, and it would - afford me the greatest pleasure to be your collaborateur. But, - alas! I am too old, my studies and thoughts are turned in quite - other directions. You would call me an outer barbarian if I told - you how long it is since I set foot in the Opera. At sixty-four I - can hardly be expected to write love songs, a requiem would be - more appropriate. If only you had come into the world thirty years - earlier, or I thirty years later, we might have worked together. - With heartiest good wishes, - - “ANDRIEUX.” - - “_17th June 1823._” - -M. Andrieux kindly brought his own letter, and stayed a long time -chatting. As he was leaving he said: - -“Ah! I, too, was an ardent lover of Gluck ... and of Piccini,[2] too!!” - -This failure discouraged me, so I turned to Gerono, who was something -of a poetaster, and asked him (innocent that I was) to dramatise -_Estelle_ for me. Luckily no one ever heard this lucubration, for my -ditties were a fair match for his words. - -This pink-and-white namby-pamby effusion was followed by a dark and -dismal thing called _The Gamester_. I was really quite enamoured of -this sepulchral dirge, which was for a bass voice with orchestral -accompaniment, and I set my heart on getting Dérivis to sing it. - -Just then the Theatre-Français advertised a benefit for -Talma--_Athalie_, with Gossec’s choruses. “With a chorus,” said I, -“they must have an orchestra. My scena is not difficult, and if only I -can persuade Talma to put it on the programme Dérivis will certainly -not refuse to sing it.” - -Off I posted to Talma, my heart beating to suffocation--unlucky omen! -At the door I began to tremble, and desperate misgivings seized me. -Dared I beard Nero in his own palace? Twice my hand went up to the -bell, twice it dropped, then I turned and fled up the street as hard as -I could pelt. - -I was but a half-tamed young savage even then! - - - - -V - -CHERUBINI - - -A short time after this M. Masson, choirmaster of St Roch, suggested -that I should write a mass for Innocents’ Day. - -He promised me a month’s practice, a hundred picked musicians, and a -still larger chorus. The choir boys of St Roch should copy the parts -carefully, so that that would cost me nothing. - -I started gaily. Of course the whole thing was nothing but a -milk-and-water copy of Lesueur, and--equally of course--when I showed -it to him he gave most praise to those parts wherein my imitation was -the closest. - -Masson swore by all his gods that the execution should be unrivalled, -the one thing needful being a good conductor, since neither he nor I -was used to handling such _vast masses of sound_. However, Lesueur most -kindly induced Valentino, conductor of the opera, to take the post, -dubious though he was of our vocal and instrumental legions. - -The day of the general rehearsal came, and with it our _vast -masses_--twenty choristers (fifteen tenors and five basses), twelve -children, nine violins, one viola, one oboe, one horn, one bassoon. - -My rage and despair at this treatment of Valentino--one of the first -conductors in the world--may be imagined. - -“It’s all right,” quoth Master Masson, “they will all turn up on the -day.” - -Valentino shrugged his shoulders resignedly, raised his baton, and they -started. - -In two seconds all was confusion; the parts were one mass of mistakes, -sharps and flats left out, ten-bar pauses omitted, a little further on -thirty bars clean gone. - -It was the most appalling muddle ever heard, and I simply writhed in -torment. There was nothing for it but to give up utterly my fond dream -of a grand orchestral performance. - -Still, it was not lost time as far as I was concerned, for, in spite -of the shocking execution, I saw where my worst faults lay, and, by -Valentino’s advice, I rewrote the whole mass--he generously promising -to help me when I should be ready for my revenge. - -But alas! while I worked my parents heard of the fiasco, and made -another determined onslaught by ridiculing my chosen vocation, and -laughing my hopes to scorn. Those were the bitter dregs of my cup of -shame; I swallowed them and silently persevered. - -Unable, for lack of money, to employ professional copyists, and being -justly afraid of amateurs, when my score was finished I wrote out every -part myself. It took me three months. Then, like Robinson Crusoe with -the boat he could not launch, I was at a stand-still. How should I get -it performed? Trust to M. Masson’s musical phalanx? That would be too -idiotic. Appeal to musicians myself? I knew none. Ask the help of the -Chapel Royal? My master had distinctly told me that was impossible, no -doubt because, had he allowed me such a privilege, he would have been -bombarded with similar requests from my fellow-students. - -My friend, Humbert Ferrand, came to the rescue with a bold proposal. -Why not ask M. de Châteaubriand to lend me twelve thousand francs? I -believe that, on the principle of it being as well to be hanged for a -sheep as a lamb, I also asked for his influence with the Ministry. Here -is his reply: - - “PARIS, _31st Dec. 1824_. - - “MONSIEUR,--If I had twelve thousand francs you should - have them. Neither have I any influence with the ministers. I am - indeed sorry for your difficulties, for I love art and artists. - However, it is through trial that success comes, and the day of - triumph is a thorough compensation for past sufferings. With most - sincere regret, - - “CHÂTEAUBRIAND.” - - - -Thus I was completely disheartened, and had no plausible answer to make -when my parents wrote threatening to stop the modest sum that alone -made life in Paris possible. - -Fortunately I met, at the opera, a young and clever music-lover, -Augustin de Pons, belonging to a Faubourg St Germain family, who, -stamping with impotent rage, had witnessed my disaster at St Roch. He -was fairly well off then, but, in defiance of his mother, he later -on married a second-rate singer, who left him after long wanderings -through France and Italy. - -Entirely ruined he returned to Paris to vegetate by giving singing -lessons. I was able to be of some use to him when I was on the staff of -the _Journal des Débats_, and I greatly wish I could have done more, -for his generous and unasked help was the turning-point of my career, -and I shall never forget it. - -Even last year he found life very hard; I tremble to think what may -have become of him since the February revolution took away his pupils. - -Seeing me one day in the foyer, he shouted: - -“I say, what about your mass? When shall we have another go at it?” - -“It is done,” I answered, “but what chance have I of getting it -performed?” - -“Chance? Why, confound it all, you have only got to pay the performers. -How much do you want? Twelve or fifteen hundred francs? Two thousand?” - -“Hu-s-s-sh, don’t roar so, for heaven’s sake! If you really mean it I -shall be most grateful for twelve hundred francs.” - -“All right. Hunt me up to-morrow and we’ll engage the opera chorus and -a real good orchestra. We must give Valentino a good innings this time.” - -And we did. The mass was grandly performed at St Roch, and was well -spoken of by the papers. Thus, thanks to that blessed de Pons, I got -my first hearing and my foot in the stirrup--as it were--of all things -most difficult and most important in Paris. - -I boldly undertook to conduct the rehearsals of chorus and orchestra -myself, and, with the exception of a slip or two, due to excitement, I -did not do so badly. But alas! how far I was from being an accomplished -conductor, and how much labour and pains it has cost me to become even -what I am. - -After the performance, seeing exactly how little my mass was worth, -I took out the Resurrexit--which seemed fairly good--and held an -_auto-da-fé_ of the rest, together with the _Gamester_, _Estelle_, and -the _Passage of the Red Sea_. A calm inquisitorial survey convinced me -of the justice of their fate. - - * * * * * - -Mournful coincidence! After writing these lines I met a friend at the -Opéra Comique, who asked: - -“When did you come back?” - -“Some weeks ago.” - -“Then you know about de Pons? No? He poisoned himself last week. He -said he was tired of living, but I am afraid that, really, he was -unable to live since the Revolution scattered his pupils.” - -Horrible! horrible! most horrible! - -I must rush out and work off this horror in the fresh air. - - * * * * * - -Lesueur, seeing how well I got on, thought it best for me to become a -regular Conservatoire student and, with the consent of Cherubini, the -director, I was enrolled. - -It was a mercy I had not to appear before the formidable author of -_Medea_, for the year before I had put him into one of his white rages -by thwarting him. - -Now the Conservatoire had not been run on precisely Puritanic lines, -so, when Cherubini succeeded Perne as director, he thought proper to -begin by making all sorts of vexatious rules. For instance, men must -use only the door into the Faubourg Poissonière and women that into the -Rue Bergère--which were at opposite ends of the building. - -One day, knowing nothing of the new rule, I went in by the feminine -door, but was stopped by a porter in the middle of the courtyard and -told to go back and all round the streets to the masculine door. I told -the man I would be hanged if I did, and calmly marched on. - -I had been buried in _Alcestis_ for a quarter of an hour, when in burst -Cherubini, looking more wicked and cadaverous and dishevelled even than -usual. With my enemy, the porter, at his heels, he jerked round the -tables, narrowly eyeing each student, and coming at last to a dead stop -in front of me. - -“That’s him,” said the porter. - -Cherubini was so furious that, for a time, he could not speak, and, -when he did, his Italian accent made the whole thing more comical than -ever--if possible. - -“Eh! Eh! Eh!” he stuttered, “so it is you vill come by ze door I vill -not ’ave you?” - -“Monsieur, I did not know of the new rule; next time----” - -“Next time? Vhat of zis next time? Vhat is it zat you come to do ’ere?” - -“To study Gluck, Monsieur, as you see.” - -“Gluck! and vhat is it to you ze scores of Gluck? Vhere get you -permission for enter ze library?” - -“Monsieur” (I was beginning to lose my temper too), “the scores of -Gluck are the most magnificent dramatic works I know, and I need no -permission to use the library since, from ten to three, it is open to -all.” - -“Zen I forbid zat you return.” - -“Excuse me, I shall return whenever I choose.” - -That made him worse. - -“Vha-Vha-Vhat is your name?” he stammered. - -“My name, Monsieur, you shall hear some day, but not now.” - -“Hotin,” to the porter, “catch ’im and make ’im put in ze prison.” - -So off we went, the two--master and servant--hot foot after me round -the tables. We knocked over desks and stools in our headlong flight, to -the amazement of the quiet onlookers, but I dodged them successfully, -crying mockingly as I reached the door: - -“You shan’t have either me or my name, and I shall soon be back here -studying Gluck.” - -That was my first meeting with Cherubini, and I rather wondered whether -he would remember it when I met him next in a less irregular manner. It -is odd that, twelve years later, in spite of him, I should have been -appointed first curator, then librarian of that very library. As for -Hotin, he is now my devoted slave and a rabid admirer of my music. I -have many other Cherubini stories to tell. Any way, if he chastised me -with whips, I certainly returned the compliment with scorpions. - - - - -VI - -MY FATHER’S DECISION - - -The hostility of my people had somewhat died down, thanks to the -success of my mass, but, naturally another reverse started it with -renewed fury. - -In the 1826 preliminary examination of candidates for admission to -the Institute I was hopelessly plucked. Of course my father heard of -it, and promptly wrote that, if I persisted in staying on in Paris, my -allowance would stop. - -My dear master kindly wrote asking him to reconsider his letter, saying -that my eventual success was certain, since I _oozed music at every -pore_. But, by ill luck, he brought in religious arguments--about the -worst thing he could have done with my free-thinking father, whose -blunt--almost rude--answer could not but wound Lesueur on his most -susceptible side. From the beginning: - -“Monsieur, I am an atheist,” the rest may be guessed. The forlorn hope -of gaining my end by personal pleading sent me back to La Côte, where -I was received frostily and left to my own reflections for some days, -during which I wrote to Ferrand: - -“No sooner away from the capital than I want to talk to you. My -journey was tiresome as far as Tarare, where I began a conversation -with two young men, whom I had, so far, avoided, thinking they looked -_dilettanti_. They told me they were artists, pupils of Guérin and -Gros, so I told them I was a pupil of Lesueur. They said all sorts of -nice things of him, and one of them began humming a chorus from the -_Danaïdes_. - -“The _Danaïdes_!” I cried, “then you are not a mere trifler?” - -“Not I,” he answered; “have I not heard Dérivis and Madame Branchu -thirty-four times as Danaüs and Hypermnestra?” - -“O-o-oh!” and we fell upon each other’s neck. - -“I know Dérivis,” said the other man. - -“And I Madame Branchu.” - -“Lucky fellows!” I said. “But how is it that, since you are not -professional musicians, you have not caught Rossini fever and turned -your backs on nature and common sense?” - -“Well, I suppose it is because, being used to seeking all that is -grandest and best in nature for our pictures, we recognise the same -spirit in Gluck and Salieri, and so turn our backs on fashionable -music.” - -“Blessed people! Such as they are alone worthy of being allowed to -listen to _Iphigenia_!” - - * * * * * - -Again my parents returned to the charge, telling me to choose my -profession, since I refused to be a doctor. Again I replied that I -could and would only be a musician and must return to Paris to study. - -“Never,” said my father, “you may give up that idea at once.” - -I was crushed; with paralysed brain I sank into a torpor from which -nothing roused me. I neither ate nor spoke nor answered when spoken to, -but spent part of the day wandering in the woods and fields and the -rest shut up in my own room. I was mentally and morally dying for want -of air. Early one morning my father came to my bedside: - -“Get up and come to my study,” he said, “I want to talk to you.” He was -grave and sad, not angry. - -“I have decided, after many sleepless nights, that you shall go back -to Paris, but only for a time. If you should fail on further trial, -I think you will do me the justice to own that I have done all that -can be expected, and will consent to try some other career. You -know my opinion of second-rate poets--every sort of mediocrity is -contemptible--and it would be a deadly humiliation to feel that you -were numbered among the failures of the world.” - -Without waiting to hear more, I promised all he wished. “But,” he -continued, “since your mother’s point of view is diametrically opposed -to mine, I desire, in order to avoid trouble, that you do not mention -this, and that you start for Paris secretly.” - -But it was impossible to hide this sudden bound from utter despair to -delirious joy and Nanci, my sister, with many promises not to tell, -wormed my secret out of me. Of course she kept it as well as I did, and -by nightfall, everyone, including my mother, knew my plans. - -Now it will hardly be believed that there are still people in France -who look upon anyone connected with theatres or theatrical art as -doomed to everlasting perdition, and since, according to French ideas, -music hardly exists outside a theatre, it, too, shares the same fate. - -Apropos of this I nearly made Lesueur die of laughing over a reply of -one of my aunts. - -We were arguing on this very point, and I said at last: - -“Come, Auntie, I believe you would object to have even Racine a member -of your family!” - -“Well, Hector,” she said seriously, “we _must_ be respectable before -everything.” - -Lesueur insisted that such sentiments could only emanate from an -elderly maiden aunt, in spite of my asseverations that she was young -and as pretty as a flower. - -Needless to say, my mother believed I was setting my feet in the broad -road that led not only to destruction in the next world, but to social -ruin in this. I quickly saw by her wrathful face that she knew all, and -did my best to slink out of her way, but it was useless. Trembling with -rage and using “you” instead of the old familiar “thou,” she said: - -“Hector, since your father countenances your folly I must speak and -save you from this mortal sin. You shall not go; I forbid it. See, here -I--your mother--kneel at your feet to beg you humbly to give up this -mad design and----” - -“Mother! mother!” I interrupted, “I cannot bear it! For pity’s sake -don’t kneel to me.” - -But she knelt on, looking up at me as I stood in miserable silence, and -finally she said: - -“You refuse, wretched boy? Then go! Drag our honoured name through the -fetid mud of Paris; kill your parents with shame and disgrace. Curses -on you! You are no more my son, and never again will I look upon your -face.” - -Could narrow-mindedness towards Art and provincial prejudice go -farther? I truly believe that my hatred of these mediæval doctrines -dates from that horrible day. - -But that was not the end of the trial. - -My mother hurried off to our little country house, Le Chuzeau, and when -the time of my departure came my father begged me to make one final -effort at reconciliation. We all went to Le Chuzeau, where we found her -reading in the orchard. As we drew near she fled. We waited, we hunted, -my father called her, my sisters and I cried bitterly, but all in vain. -Without a kind word or look from my mother, with her curse upon my -head, I started on my life’s career. - - - - -VII - -PRIVATION - - -Once back in Paris, and fairly started in Lesueur’s class, I began to -worry about my debt to de Pons. - -It would certainly never be paid off out of my monthly allowance of a -hundred and twenty francs. I therefore got some pupils for singing, -flute and guitar, and, by dint of strict economy, in a few months I -scraped together six hundred francs, with which I hurried off to my -kind creditor. - -How could I save out of such a sum? Well, I had a tiny fifth-floor -room at the corner of the Rue de Harley and the Quai des Orfèvres, I -gave up restaurant dinners and contented myself with a meal of dry -bread with prunes, raisins or dates, which cost about fourpence. - -As it was summer time I took my dainties, bought at the nearest -grocer’s, and ate them on that little terrace on the Pont Neuf at the -foot of Henry IV.’s statue; watching the while the sun set behind Mont -Valerien, with its exquisite reflections in the murmuring river below, -and pondering over Thomas Moore’s poems, of which I had lately found a -translation. - -But de Pons, troubled at my privations--which, since we often met, I -could not hide from him--brought fresh disaster upon me by a piece -of well-meant but fatal interference. He wrote to my father, telling -him everything, and asking for the balance of his debt. Now my father -already repented bitterly his leniency towards me; here had I been five -months in Paris without in the least bettering my position. No doubt he -thought that I had nothing to do but present myself at the Institute to -carry all before me: win the Prix de Rome, write a successful opera, -get the Legion of Honour, and a Government pension, etc., etc. - -Instead of this came news of an unpaid debt. It was a blow and -naturally reacted on me. - -He sent de Pons his six hundred francs, and told me that, if I refused -to give up my musical wild-goose chase, I must depend on myself alone, -for he would help me no more. - -As de Pons was paid, and I had my pupils, I decided to stay in -Paris--my life would be no more frugal than heretofore. I was really -working very steadily at music. Cherubini, of the orderly mind, knowing -I had not gone through the regular Conservatoire mill to get into -Lesueur’s class, said I must go into Reicha’s counterpoint class, -since that should have preceded the former. This, of course, meant -double work. - -I had also, most happily, made friends some time before with a young -man named Humbert Ferrand--still one of my closest friends--who had -written the _Francs-Juges_ libretto for me, and in hot haste I was -writing the music. - -Both poem and music were refused by the Opera committee and were -shelved, with the exception of the overture; I, however, used up the -best _motifs_ in other ways. Ferrand also wrote a poem on the Greek -Revolution, which at that time fired all our enthusiasm; this too I -arranged. It was influenced entirely by Spontini, and was the means of -giving my innocence its first shock at contact with the world, and of -awakening me rudely to the egotism of even great artists. - -Rudolph Kreutzer was then director of the Opera House, where, during -Holy Week, some sacred concerts were to be given. Armed with a letter -of introduction from Monsieur de Larochefoucauld, Minister of Fine -Arts, and with Lesueur’s warm commendations, I hoped to induce Kreutzer -to give my scena. - -Alas for youthful illusions! - -This great artist--author of the _Death of Abel_, on which I -had written him heaven only knows what nonsense some months -before--received me most rudely. - -“My good friend” (he did not know me in the least), he said shortly, -turning his back on me, “we can’t try new things at sacred concerts--no -time to work at them. Lesueur knows that perfectly well.” - -With a swelling heart I went away. - -The following Sunday Lesueur had it out with him in the Chapel Royal, -where he was first violin. Turning on my master in a temper, he said: - -“Confound it all! If we let in all these young folks, what is to become -of us?” - -He was at least plain spoken! - -Winter came on apace. In working at my opera I had rather neglected my -pupils, and my Pont Neuf dining-room, growing cold and damp, was no -longer suitable for my feasts of Lucullus. - -How should I get warm clothes and firewood? Hardly from my lessons at a -franc a piece, since they might stop any day. - -Should I write to my father and acknowledge myself beaten, or die -of hunger in Paris? Go back to La Côte to vegetate? Never. The mere -idea filled me with maddening energy, and I resolved to go abroad to -join some orchestra in New York or Mexico, to turn sailor, buccaneer, -savage, anything, rather than give in. - -I can’t help my nature. It is about as wise to sit on a gunpowder -barrel to prevent it exploding as it is to cross my will. - -I was nearly at my wits’ end when I heard that the Théâtre des -Nouveautés was being opened for vaudeville and comic opera. I tore -off to the manager to ask for a flautist’s place in the orchestra. -All filled! A chorus singer’s? None left, confound it all! However -the manager took my address and promised to let me know if, by any -possibility there should be a vacancy. Some days later came a letter -saying that I might go and be examined at the Freemason’s Hall, Rue -de Grenelle. There I found five or six poor wights in like case with -myself, waiting in sickening anxiety--a weaver, a blacksmith, an -out-of-work actor and a chorister. The management wanted basses, my -voice was nothing but a second-rate baritone; how I prayed that the -examiner might have a deaf ear. - -The manager appeared with a musician named Michel, who still belongs to -the Vaudeville orchestra. His fiddle was to be our only accompaniment. - -We began. My rivals sang, in grand style, carefully prepared songs, -then came my turn. Our huge manager (appropriately blessed with the -name of St Leger) asked what I had brought. - -“I? Why nothing.” - -“Then what do you mean to sing?” - -“Whatever you like. Haven’t you a score, some singing exercise, -anything?” - -“No. And besides”--with resigned contempt--“I don’t suppose you could -sing at sight if we had.” - -“Excuse me, I will sing at sight anything you give me.” - -“Well, since we have no music, do you know anything by heart?” - -“Yes. I know the _Danaïdes_, _Stratonice_, the _Vestal_, _Œdipus_, the -two _Iphigenias_, _Orpheus_, _Armida_----” - -“There, that will do! That will do! what a devil of a memory you must -have! Since you are such a prodigy, give us “_Elle m’a prodigué_” from -Sacchini’s _Œdipus_. Can you accompany him, Michel?” - -“Certainly. In what key?” - -“E flat. Do you want the recitative too?” - -“Yes. Let’s have it all.” - -And the glorious melody: - - “Antigone alone is left me,” - -rolled forth, while the poor listeners, with pitifully down-cast faces, -glanced at each other recognising that, though I might be bad, they -were infinitely worse. - -The following day I was engaged at a salary of fifty francs a month. - -And this was the result of my parents’ efforts to save me from the -bottomless pit! Instead of a cursed dramatic composer I had become -a damned theatre chorus-singer, excommunicated with bell, book and -candle. Surely my last state was worse than my first! - -One success brought others. The smiling skies rained down two new -pupils and a fellow-provincial, Antoine Charbonnel, whom I met when -he came up to study as an apothecary. Neither of us having any money, -we--like Walter in the _Gambler_--cried out together: - -“What! no money either? My dear fellow, let’s go into partnership.” - -We rented two small rooms in the Rue de la Harpe and, since Antoine -was used to the management of retorts and crucibles, we made him cook. -Every morning we went marketing and I, to his intense disgust, would -insist on bringing back our purchases under my arm without trying to -hide them. Oh, pharmaceutical gentility! it nearly landed us in a -quarrel. - -We lived like princes--exiled ones--on thirty francs a month each. -Never before in Paris had I been so comfortable. I began to develop -extravagant ideas, bought a piano--_such_ a thing! it cost a hundred -and ten francs. I knew I could not play it, but I like trying chords -now and then. Besides, I love to be surrounded by musical instruments -and, were I only rich enough, would work in company with a grand piano, -two or three Erard harps, some wind instruments and a whole crowd of -Stradivarius violins and ’cellos. - -I decorated my room with framed portraits of my musical gods, and -Antoine, who was as clever as a monkey with his fingers (not a very -good simile, by-the-way, since monkeys only destroy) made endless -little useful things--amongst others a net with which, in spring-time, -he caught quails at Montrouge, to vary our Spartan fare. - -But the humour of the whole situation lay in the fact that, although I -was out every evening at the theatre, Antoine never guessed--during -the whole time we lived together--that I had the ill-luck to _tread -the boards_ and, not being exactly proud of my position, I did not see -the force of enlightening him. He supposed I was giving lessons at the -other end of Paris. - -It seems as if his silly pride and mine were about on a par. Yet no; -mine was not all foolish vanity. In spite of my parents’ harshness, -for nothing in the world would I have given them the intense pain of -knowing how I gained my living. So I held my tongue and they only heard -of my theatrical career--as did Antoine Charbonnel--some seven or eight -years after it ended, through biographical notices in some of the -papers. - - - - -VIII - -FAILURE - - -It was at this time that I wrote the _Francs-Juges_ and, after it, -_Waverley_. Even then, I was so ignorant of the scope of certain -instruments that, having written a solo in D flat for the trombones in -the introduction to the _Francs-Juges_, I got into a sudden panic lest -it should be unplayable. - -However one of the trombone players at the opera, to whom I showed it, -set my mind at rest. - -“On the contrary,” said he, “D flat is a capital key for the trombone; -that passage ought to be most effective.” - -Overjoyed, I went home with my head so high in the air that I could -not look after my feet, whereby I sprained my ankle. I never hear that -thing now without feeling my foot ache; probably other people get the -ache in their heads. - -Neither of my masters could help me in the least in orchestration--it -was not in their line. Reicha did certainly know the capacity of most -wind instruments, but I do not think he knew anything of the effect of -grouping them in different ways; besides it had nothing to do with his -department, which was counterpoint and fugue. Even now it is not taught -at the Conservatoire. - -However, before being engaged at the Nouveautés I had made the -acquaintance of a friend of Gardel, the well-known ballet-master, -and he often gave me pit tickets for the opera, so that I could go -regularly. - -I always took the score and read it carefully during the performance, -so that, in time, I got to know the sound--the voice, as it were--of -each instrument and the part it filled; although, of course, I learnt -nothing of either its mechanism or compass. - -Listening so closely, I also found out for myself the intangible bond -between each instrument and true musical expression. - -The study of Beethoven, Weber and Spontini and their systems; searching -enquiry into the gifts of each instrument; careful investigation of -rare or unused combinations; the society of _virtuosi_ who kindly -explained to me the powers of their several instruments, and a certain -amount of instinct have done the rest for me. - -Reicha’s lectures were wonderfully helpful, his demonstrations being -absolutely clear because he invariably gave the reason for each rule. -A thoroughly open-minded man, he believed in progress, thereby coming -into frequent collision with Cherubini, whose respect for the masters -of harmony was simply slavish. - -Still, in composition Reicha kept strictly to rule. Once I asked his -candid opinion on those figures, written entirely on _Amen_ or _Kyrie -eleison_, with which the Requiems of the old masters bristle. - -“They are utterly barbarous!” he cried hotly. - -“Then, Monsieur, why do you write them?” - -“Oh, confound it all! because everyone else does.” - -Miseria! - -Now Lesueur was more consistent. He considered these monstrosities more -like the vociferations of a horde of drunkards than a sacred chorus, -and he took good care to avoid them. The few found in his works have -not the slightest resemblance to them, and indeed his - - “Quis enarrabit cœlorum gloriam” - -is a masterpiece of form, style and dignity. - -Those composers who, by writing such abominations, have truckled to -custom, have prostituted their intelligence and unpardonably insulted -their divine muse. - -Before coming to France Reicha had been in Bonn with Beethoven, but -I do not think they had much in common. He set great value on his -mathematical studies. - -“Thanks to them,” he used to say, “I am master of my mind. To them I -owe it that my vivid imagination has been tamed and brought within -bounds, thereby doubling its power.” - -I am not at all sure that his theory was correct. It is quite possible -that his love for intricate and thorny musical problems made him lose -sight of the real aim of music, and that what the eye gained by his -curious and ingenious solution of difficulties the ear did not lose in -melody and true musical expression. - -For praise or blame he cared nothing; he lived only to forward his -pupils, on whom he lavished his utmost care and attention. - -At first I could see that he found my everlasting questions a perfect -nuisance, but in time he got to like me. His wind instrumental -quintettes were fashionable for a time in Paris; they are interesting -but cold. On the other hand, I remember hearing a magnificent duet, -from his opera _Sappho_, full of fire and passion. - - * * * * * - -When the Conservatoire examinations of 1827 came on I went up again, -and fortunately passed the preliminary, thereby becoming eligible for -the general competition. - -The subject set was Orpheus torn by the Bacchantes. I think my version -was fair, but the incompetent pianist who was supposed to do duty for -an orchestra (such is the incredible arrangement at these contests) not -being able to make head or tail of my score, the powers that were--to -wit, Cherubini, Päer, Lesueur, Berton, Boïeldieu and Catel, the musical -section of the Institute--decided that my music was impracticable, and -I was put out of court. - -So, after my Kreutzer experience of selfish jealousy, I now had a -sample of wooden-headed sticking to the letter of the law. In thus -taking away my modest chance of distinction did none of them think of -the consequences of driving me to despair like this? - -I had got a fortnight’s leave from the Nouveautés for the competition; -when it was over I should have again to take up my burden. But just as -the time expired I fell ill with a quinsy that nearly made an end of me. - -Antoine was always trotting after grisettes and left me almost entirely -alone. I believe I should have died without help had I not one night, -in a fit of desperation, stuck a pen-knife into the abscess that choked -me. This somewhat unscientific operation saved me, and I was beginning -to mend when my father--no doubt touched by my steady patience and -perhaps anxious as to my means of livelihood--wrote and restored me my -allowance. - -Thanks to this unhoped-for kindness, I gave up chorus-singing--no -small relief, since, apart from the actual bodily fatigue, the idiotic -music I had to suffer from would soon have either given me cholera or -turned me into a drivelling lunatic. - -Free from my dreary trade I gave myself up, with redoubled zest, to -my Opera evenings and to the study of dramatic music. I never thought -of instrumental, since the only concerts I had heard were the cold -and mean Opera performances, of which I was not greatly enamoured. -Haydn and Mozart, played by an insufficient orchestra in too large a -building, made about as much effect as if they had been given on the -_plaine de Grenelle_. Beethoven, two of whose symphonies I had read, -seemed a sun indeed, but a sun obscured by heavy clouds. Weber’s name -was unknown to me, while as for Rossini---- - -The very mention of him and of the fanaticism of fashionable Paris for -him put me in a rage that is not lessened by the obvious fact that he -is the antithesis of Gluck and Spontini. Believing these great masters -perfect, how could I tolerate his puerilities, his unmerciful big -drum, his constant repetition of one form of cadence, his contempt -for great traditions? My prejudice blinded me even to this exquisite -instrumentation of the _Barbiere_ (without the big drum too!) and I -longed to blow up the _Théâtre Italien_ with all its Rossinian audience -and so put an end to it at one fell swoop. When I met one of the tribe -I eyed him with a Shylockian scowl. - -“Miscreant!” I growled between my teeth, “would that I might impale -thee on a red-hot iron.” - -Time has not changed my opinion, and though I think I can refrain from -blowing up a theatre and impaling people on hot irons, I quite agree -with our great painter, Ingres, who, speaking of some of Rossini’s -work, said: - -“It is the music of a vulgar-minded man.” - - - - -IX - -A NIGHT AT THE OPERA - - -Here is a picture of one of my opera evenings. - -It was a serious business for which I prepared by reading over and -studying whatever was to be given. - -My faithful pit friends and I had but one religion, with one god, -Gluck, and I was his high priest. Our fanaticism for our favourites was -only equalled by our frantic hatred of all composers whom we judged to -be without the pale. - -Did one of my fellow-worshippers tremble or waver in his faith, -promptly would I drag him off to the opera to retract--even going so -far sometimes as to pay for his ticket. On one special seat would I -place my victim, saying, “Now for pity’s sake don’t move. Nowhere else -can you hear so well--I know because I have tried the right place for -every opera.” - -Then I would begin to expound, reading and explaining obscure passages -as I went along; we were always in very good time, first to get the -places we wanted; next, so as not to miss the opening notes of the -overture; lastly, in order to taste to the uttermost the exciting, -thrilling expectation of a great pleasure of which one knows the -realisation will exceed one’s hopes. The gradual filling of the -orchestra--at first as dreary as a stringless harp; the distribution -of the parts--an anxious moment this, for the opera might have been -changed; the joy of reading the hoped-for title on the desks of the -double-basses, which were nearest to us; or the horror of seeing it -was replaced by some wretched little drivel like Rousseau’s _Devin du -Village_--when we would rush out in a body, swearing at all and sundry. - -Poor Rousseau! What would he have said if he could have heard our -curses? He, who thought more of his feeble little opera than of all -the masterpieces through which his name lives. How could he foresee -that it would some day be extinguished for ever by a huge powdered -periwig, thrown at the heroine’s feet by some irreverent scoffer. -As it happened, I was present that very night and, naturally, kind -friends credited me with this little unrehearsed effect. I am really -quite innocent, I even remember being quite as angry about it as I was -amused--so I do not think I should or could have done such a thing. -Since that night of joyous memory the poor _Devin_ has appeared no more. - -But to go back to my story. - -Reassured on the subject of the performance, I continued my preachment, -singing the leading motifs, explaining the orchestration and doing my -best to work my little gang up to a pitch of enthusiasm, to the great -wonderment of our neighbours who--mostly simple country folks--were so -wrought upon by my speeches that they quite expected to be carried away -by their emotions, wherein they were usually grievously disappointed. - -I also named each member of the orchestra as he came in and gave a -dissertation on his playing until I was stopped short by the three -knocks behind the scenes. Then we sat with beating hearts awaiting -the signal from Kreutzer or Valentino’s raised baton. After that, no -humming, no beating time on the part of our neighbours. Our rule was -Draconian. - -Knowing every note of the score, I would have let myself be chopped -in pieces rather than let the conductor take liberties with it. Wait -quietly and write my expostulations? Not exactly! No half-measures for -me! - -There and then I would publicly denounce the sinners and my remarks -went straight home. - -For instance, I noticed one day that in _Iphigenia in Tauris_ cymbals -had been added to the Scythian dance, whereas Gluck had only employed -strings, and in the Orestes recitative, the trombones, that come in so -perfectly appropriately, were left out altogether. - -I decided that if these barbarisms were repeated I would let them know -it and I lay in wait for my cymbals. - -They appeared. - -I waited, although boiling over with rage, until the end of the -movement, then, in the moment’s silence that followed, I yelled: - -“Who dares play tricks with Gluck and put cymbals where there are none?” - -The murmuring around may be imagined. The public, not being -particularly critical, could not conceive why that young idiot in the -pit should get so excited over so little. But it was worse when the -absence of the trombones made itself evident in the recitative. - -Again that fatal voice was heard: - -“Where are those trombones? This is simply outrageous!” - -The astonishment of audience and orchestra were fairly matched by -Valentino’s very natural anger. I heard afterwards that the unlucky -trombones were only obeying orders; their parts were quite correctly -written. - -After that night the proper readings were restored, the cymbals were -silent, the trombones spoke; I was serene. - -De Pons, who was just as crazy as I on this point, helped me to put -several other points straight but once we went too far and dragged in -the public at our heels. - -A violin solo advertised for Baillot was left out. We clamoured -for it furiously, the pit fired up, then the whole house rose and -howled for Baillot. The curtain fell on the confusion, the musicians -fled precipitately, the audience dashed into the orchestra smashing -everything they could lay hands on and only stopping when there was -nothing left to smash. - -In vain did I cry: - -“Messieurs, messieurs! what are you doing? To break the instruments is -too barbarous. That’s Father Chénié’s glorious double-bass with its -diabolic tone.” - -But they were too far gone to listen, and the havoc was complete. - -This was the bad side of our unofficial criticism; the good side was -our wild enthusiasm when all went well. How we applauded anything -superlative that no one noticed, such as a fine bass, a happy -modulation, a telling note of the oboe! The public took us for embryo -_claqueurs_, the _claque_ leader, who knew better and whose little -plans were upset, tried to wither us with thunderbolt glances, but we -were bomb-proof. - -There is no such enthusiasm in France nowadays, not even in the -Conservatoire, its last remaining stronghold. - -Here is the funniest scene I ever remember at the opera. I had swept -off Leon de Boissieux, an unwilling proselyte, to hear _Œdipus_; -however, nothing but billiards appealed to him, and, finding him -utterly impervious to the woes of Antigone and her father, I stepped -over into a seat in front, giving him up in despair. - -But he had a music-loving neighbour and this is what I heard, while my -young man was peeling an orange and casting apprehensive glances at the -other man, who was evidently in a state of wild excitement. - -“Sir, for pity’s sake, do try to be calm.” - -“Impossible! It’s killing me! It is so terrible, so overwhelming!” - -“My good man, you will be ill if you go on like this. You really -shouldn’t.” - -“Oh! oh! Leave me alone! Oh!” - -“Come! come! Do cheer up a bit. Remember it is nothing but a play. -Here, take a piece of my orange.” - -“It’s sublime----” - -“Yes, it’s Maltese----” - -“What glorious art!” - -“Don’t say ‘No.’” - -“Oh, sir! what music!” - -“Yes, it’s not bad.” - -By this time the opera had got to the lovely trio, “Sweet Moments,” and -the exquisite delicacy of the simple air overcame me too. I hid my face -in my hands, and tears trickled between my fingers. I might have been -plunged in the depths of woe. - -As the trio ended two strong arms lifted me off my seat, nearly -crushing my breast-bone in; the enthusiast, recognising one -fellow-worshipper amongst the cold-blooded lot around, hugged me -furiously, crying: - -“B-b-b-by Jove, sir! isn’t it beautiful?” - -“Are you a musician?” - -“No, but I am as fond of it as if I were.” - -Then, regardless of surrounding giggles and of my orange-devouring -neophyte, we exchanged names and addresses in a whisper. - -He was an engineer, a mathematician! Where, the devil, will true -musical perception next find a lodging, I wonder? His name was Le -Tessier, but we never met again. - - - - -X - -WEBER - - -Into the midst of this stormy student life of mine came the revelation -of Weber, by means of a miserable, distorted version of _Der -Freyschütz_, called _Robin des Bois_, which was performed at the Odéon. -The orchestra was good, the chorus fair, the soloists simply appalling. - -One wretched woman alone, Madame Pouilley, by the imperturbably wooden -way in which she went through her part--even that glorious air in the -second act--would have been enough to wreck the whole opera. Small -wonder that it took me a long while to unearth all the beauty of its -hidden treasures. - -The first night it was received with hisses and laughter, the next -the audience began to see something in the Huntsmen’s Chorus, and -they let the rest pass. Then they rather fancied the Bridesmaid’s -Chorus and Agatha’s Prayer, half of which was cut out. A glimmering -notion that Max’s great aria was fairly dramatic followed; finally it -burst upon them that the Wolf’s Glen scene was really quite comic; so -all Paris rushed to see this misshapen horror, the Odéon got rich, -and Castilblaze netted a hundred thousand francs for destroying a -masterpiece. - -Now I must own frankly that I was getting rather tired of high tragedy, -in spite of my conservatism, and, chopped about as it was, the sweet -wild savour of this woodland pastoral, its dainty grace and tender -melancholy opened to me a new world of music. - -I deserted the opera in favour of the Odéon, where I had the _entrée_ -to the orchestra, and soon knew _Der Freyschütz_ (according to -Castilblaze) by heart. - -More than twenty years have passed since Weber himself passed through -Paris for the first and last time. He was on his way to his London -death-bed, and breathlessly I followed in his track, hoping and longing -to meet him face to face. - -One morning Lesueur said: - -“Why were you not here five minutes sooner? Weber has been playing our -French scores by heart to me.” - -A few hours later in a music shop-- - -“Whom do you think we had here just now? Why, Weber!” - -At the Odéon people were saying: - -“Weber has just gone by. He is up in one of the boxes.” - -It was maddening--I, alone, never saw him. Unlike Shakespeare’s -apparitions, he was visible to all but one. - -Too obscure to dare to write, without a friend who could introduce me, -he passed out of my world. - -Ah, why do not the thrice-gifted ones of this world know of the -passionate love and devotion their works inspire! If they could but -divine the suppressed admiration of a few faithful hearts! Would they -not gladly gather these chosen disciples about them to become a bulwark -against the shafts of envy, hatred, malice, and luke-warm tolerance of -which a thoughtless world makes them the target! - -Weber was justly angry when he found out how Castilblaze--veterinary -surgeon of music--had butchered his beautiful work, and he published a -complaint before leaving Paris. Castilblaze actually had the audacity -to play the injured innocent, and to say that it was entirely owing to -his adaptation that _Freyschütz_ had succeeded at all! - -The wretch!----yet a poor sailor gets fifty lashes for the slightest -insubordination. - -Exactly the same thing had been done a few years earlier with Mozart’s -_Magic Flute_. It had been botched into a ghastly _pot-pourri_ by -Lachnith--whom I hereby pillory with Castilblaze--and given as the -_Mysteries of Isis_. - -Thus mocked, travestied, deprived of a limb here, an eye there--twisted -and maimed--these two men of genius were introduced to the French -public. - -How is it that they put up with these atrocities? - -Mozart assassinated by Lachnith. - -Weber by Castilblaze--who did the same for Gluck, Mozart, Rossini, and -Beethoven. - -Beethoven’s symphonies “corrected” by Fétis, by Kreutzer, and by -Habeneck (of this I have more to say). - -Molière and Corneille chopped up by Théâtre Français demons. - -Shakespeare “arranged” for performance in England by Colley Cibber! The -list is endless. - -No, a thousand times no! No man living has a right to try and destroy -the individuality of another, to force him to adopt a style not his -own, and to give up his natural point of view. If a man be commonplace, -let him remain so; if he be great--a choice spirit set above his -fellows--then, in the name of all the gods, bow humbly before him, and -let him stand erect and alone in his glory. - -I know that Garrick improved _Romeo and Juliet_ by putting his -exquisite, pathetic ending in the place of Shakespeare’s; but who are -the miscreants who doctored _King Lear_, _Hamlet_, _The Tempest_, -_Richard the Third_? - -That all comes from Garrick’s example. Every mean scribbler thinks he -can give points to Shakespeare. - -But to go back to music. At the last sacred concerts, after Kreutzer -had experimentalised by making cuts in one Beethoven symphony, did not -Habeneck follow suit by dropping out several instruments in another, -and M. Costa, in London, try all sorts of weird conclusions with big -drums, ophicleides, and trombones in _Don Giovanni_ and _Figaro_? Well! -if conductors lead the way, who can blame the small fry for following -after? - -But is not this the ruin of Art? Ought not we, who love and honour her, -who are jealous for the prescriptive rights of human intellect, to -hound down and annihilate the transgressor; to cry aloud: - -“Thy crime is ridiculous. Thy stupidity beneath contempt. Despair and -die! Be thou contemned, be thou derided, be thou accursed! Despair and -die!!!” - - * * * * * - -My devotion to Gluck and Spontini at first somewhat blinded me to the -glories of Mozart. Not only had I a prejudice against Italian, both -language and singers, but in _Don Giovanni_ the composer has written a -passage that I call simply criminal. Doña Anna bewails her fate in a -passage of heart-rending beauty and sorrow, then, right in the middle, -after _Forse un giorno_ comes an impossible piece of buffoonery that I -would give my blood to wipe out. - -This and other similar passages that I found in his compositions sent -my admiration for Mozart down below zero. I felt I could not trust -his dramatic instinct, and it was not until years later, when I found -the original score of the _Magic Flute_ instead of its travesty, the -_Mysteries of Isis_, and made acquaintance with the marvellous beauty -of his quartettes and quintettes, and some of his sonatas, that this -Angelic Doctor took his due place in my mind. - - - - -XI - -HENRIETTE - - -I cannot go minutely into all the sorrowful details of the great drama -of my life, upon which the curtain rose about this time (1827). - -An English company had come over to Paris to play Shakespeare, and -at their first performance--_Hamlet_--I saw in Ophelia the Henriette -Smithson who, five years later, became my wife. The impression made -upon my heart and mind by her marvellous genius was only equalled by -the agitation into which I was plunged by the poetry she so nobly -interpreted. - -Shakespeare, coming upon me unawares, struck me down as with a -thunderbolt. His lightning spirit, descending upon me with transcendent -power from the starry heights, opened to me the highest heaven of Art, -lit up its deepest depths, and revealed the best and grandest and -truest that earth can shew. - -I realised the paltry meanness of our French view of that mighty brain. -The scales fell from my eyes, I saw, felt, understood, lived; I arose -and walked! - -But the shock was overwhelming, and it was long ere I recovered. -Intense, profound melancholy, combined with extreme nerve-exhaustion, -reduced me to a pitiable state of mind and body that only a great -physiologist could diagnose. - -A martyr to insomnia, I lost all elasticity of brain, all -concentration, all taste for my best loved studies, and I wandered -aimlessly about the Paris streets and through the country round.[3] - -By dint of overtiring my body, I managed, during this wretched time, to -get four spells of death-like sleep or torpor, and four only; one night -in a field near Ville-Juif, one day near Sceaux; a third in the snow -by the frozen Seine near Neuilly, and the last on a table in the Café -Cardinal, where I slept five hours, to the great fright of the waiters, -who dared not touch me lest I should be dead. - -Returning one day from this dreary wandering in search of my lost soul, -I noticed Moore’s _Irish Melodies_ open on the table at - - “When he who adores thee,” - -and, catching up a pen, I wrote the music to that heart-rending -farewell straight off. It is the _Elégie_ at the end of my set of songs -called _Ireland_. This is the only time I can remember being able to -depict a sentiment while actively under its influence, and seldom have -I gone so direct to the heart of it. - -It is a most difficult song both to sing and to accompany. To do it -justice the singer must create his own atmosphere, so must the pianist -and only the most sensitive and artistic souls should attempt it. - -For this reason, during all the twenty odd years since it was written, -I have never asked anyone to try it; but one day Alizard picked it up -and began trying it without the piano. Even that upset me so terribly -that I had to beg him to stop. He understood. I know he would have -interpreted it perfectly, and it was more than I could bear. I did -begin to set it to an orchestral accompaniment, but I thought: - -“No, this is not for the general public. I could not stand their calm -indifference,” and I burnt the score. - -Yet some day it may chance, in England or Germany, to find a niche in -some wounded breast, some quivering soul--in France and Italy it is a -hopeless alien. - -Coming away from _Hamlet_, I vowed that never more would I expose -myself to Shakespearian temptation, never more singe my scorched wings -in his flame. - -Next morning _Romeo and Juliet_ was placarded. In terror lest the free -list of the Odéon should be suspended by the new management, I tore -round to the box-office and bought a stall. I was done for! - -Ah! what a change from the dull grey skies and icy winds of Denmark to -the burning sun, the perfumed nights of Italy! From the melancholy, the -cruel irony, the tears, the mourning, the lowering destiny of Hamlet, -what a transition to the impetuous youthful love, the long-drawn -kisses, the vengeance, the despairing fatal conflict of love and death -in those hapless lovers! - -By the third act, half suffocated by my emotion, with the grip of an -iron hand upon my heart, I cried to myself: “I am lost--am lost!” - -Knowing no English I could but grope mistily through the fog of a -translation, could only see Shakespeare as in a glass--darkly. The -poetic weft that winds its golden thread in network through those -marvellous creations was invisible to me then; yet, as it was, how much -I learnt! - -An English critic has stated in the _Illustrated London News_ that, on -seeing Miss Smithson that night, I said: - -“I will marry Juliet and will write my greatest symphony on the play.” - -I did both, but I never said anything of the kind. I was in far too -much perturbation to entertain such ambitious dreams. Only through much -tribulation were both ends gained. - -After seeing these two plays I had no more difficulty in keeping away -from the theatre. I shuddered at the bare idea of renewing such awful -suffering, and shrank as if from excruciating physical pain. - -Months passed in this state of numb despair, my only lucid moments -being dreams of Shakespeare and of Miss Smithson--now the darling of -Paris--and dreary comparisons between her brilliant triumphs and my sad -obscurity. - -As I gradually awoke to life again, a plan began to take shape in my -mind. She should hear of me; she should know that I also was an artist; -I would do what, so far, no French artist had ever done--give a concert -entirely of my own works. For this three things were needed--copies, -hall, and performers. - -Therefore (this was early in the spring of 1828) I set to work, and, -writing sixteen hours out of twenty-four, I copied every single part -of the pieces I had chosen, which were the overtures to _Waverley_ -and the _Francs-Juges_, an aria and trio from the latter, the scena -_Heroic Greek_, and the cantata on the _Death of Orpheus_, that the -Conservatoire committee had judged unplayable. - -While copying furiously I saved furiously too, and added some hundreds -of francs to my store, wherewith to pay the chorus; for orchestra I -knew I might count on the friendly help of the staff of the Odéon, with -a sprinkling of assistants from the Opera and the Nouveautés. - -My chief difficulty was the hall; it always is in Paris. For the only -suitable one--the Conservatoire--I must have a permit from M. de -Larochefoucauld and also the consent of Cherubini. - -The first was easily obtained; not so the second. - -At the first mention of my design Cherubini flew in a rage. - -“Vant to gif a conchert?” he said, with his usual suavity. - -“Yes, monsieur.” - -“Must ’ave permission of Fine Arts Director first.” - -“I have it.” - -“M. de Larossefoucauld, ’e consent?” - -“Yes, monsieur.” - -“But me, I not consent. I vill oppose zat you get ze ’all.” - -“But, monsieur, you can have no reasonable objection, since the hall is -not engaged for the next fortnight.” - -“But I tell to you zat I vill not ’ave zat you gif zis conchert. -Everyone is avay and no profit vill be to you.” - -“I expect none. I merely wish to become known.” - -“Zere is no necessity zat you become known. And zen for expense you -vill want monee. Vhat ’ave you of monee?” - -“Sufficient, monsieur.” - -“A-a-ah! But vhat vill you make ’ear at zis conchert?” - -“Two overtures, some excerpts from an opera and the _Death of Orpheus_.” - -“Zat competition cantata? I vill not ’ave zat! She is bad--bad; she is -impossible to play.” - -“You say so, monsieur; I judge differently. That a bad pianist could -not play it is no reason that a good orchestra should not.” - -“Zen it is for insult of ze Académie zat you play zis?” - -“No, monsieur; it is simply as an experiment. If, as is possible, -the Academy was right in saying my score could not be played, then -certainly the orchestra will not play it. If the Academy was wrong, -people will only say that I made good use of its judgment and have -corrected my score.” - -“You can only ’ave your conchert on ze Sunday.” - -“Very well, I will take Sunday.” - -“But zose poor _employés_--ze doorkeepers--zey ’ave but ze Sunday for -repose zem. Vould you take zeir only rest-day? Zey vill die--zose poor -folks--zey vill die of fatigue.” - -“On the contrary, monsieur. These poor folks are delighted at the -chance of earning a few extra francs, and they will not thank you for -depriving them of it.” - -“I vill not ’ave it; I vill not! And I write to ze Director zat he -vizdraw permission.” - -“Most hearty thanks, monsieur, but M. de Larochefoucauld never breaks -his word. I also shall write and retail our conversation exactly. Then -he will be able to weigh the arguments on both sides.” - -I did so, and was afterwards told by one of his secretaries that my -dialogue-letter made the Director laugh till he cried. He was, above -all, touched at Cherubini’s tender consideration for those poor devils -of _employés_ whom I was going to kill with fatigue. - -He replied, as any man blessed with commonsense would, repeating his -authorisation and adding: - -“You will kindly show this letter to M. Cherubini, who has already -received the necessary _orders_.” - -Of course I posted off to the Conservatoire and handed in my letter; -Cherubini read it, turned pale, then yellow, and finally green, then -handed it back without a word. - -This was my first Roland for the Oliver he gave me in turning me out of -the library. It was not to be my last. - - - - -XII - -MY FIRST CONCERT - - -Having secured orchestra, hall, chorus and parts, I only wanted -soloists and a conductor. Bloc, of the Odéon, kindly accepted the -latter post, and Alexis Dupont, although very unwell, took under his -wing my _Orpheus_, which he had promised to sing before the jury of the -Institute, had it been passed. - -But unluckily his hoarseness got so much worse that, when the day came, -he was unable to sing at all, so I was deprived of the wicked joy of -putting on the programme, “_Death of Orpheus_; lyric poem, judged -impossible of execution by the Académie des Beaux Arts, performed May -1828.” - -A concert at which most of the executants helped for love and not for -money naturally came off poorly in rehearsals; still, at the final -rehearsal the overtures went fairly well, the _Francs-Juges_ calling -forth warm applause from the orchestra; the finale of the cantata -being even more successful. - -In this, after the _Bacchanal_, I made the wind carry on the motif of -Orpheus’ love-song to a strange rushing undertone accompaniment by the -rest of the players, while the dying wail of a far-off voice cries: - -“Eurydice! Eurydice! hapless Eurydice!” - -The wild sadness of my music-picture affected the whole orchestra, and -they hailed it with wild enthusiasm. I am sorry now that I burnt it, it -was worth keeping for those last pages alone. - -With the exception of the _Bacchanal_--the famous piece in which the -Conservatoire pianist got hung up--which was given with magnificent -verve, nothing else in the cantata went very well and, thanks to -Dupont’s illness, it was withdrawn. No doubt Cherubini preferred to say -that it was because the orchestra could not play it. - -In this cantata I first noticed how impossible conductors, unused to -grand opera, find it to give way to the capricious and varied time of -the recitative. Bloc, only accustomed to songs interspersed with spoken -dialogue, was quite confused and, in some places, never got right at -all, which made a learned periwigged amateur, who was at rehearsal, -say, as he shook his head at me: - -“Give me good old Italian cantatas! Now that’s the music that never -bothers a conductor. It plays itself, it runs alone.” - -“Yes,” I said dryly, “just as old donkeys plod round and round their -treadmill.” - -That is how I set about making friends. - -Much against the grain I replaced _Orpheus_ by the _Resurrexit_ from my -mass, and finally the concert came off. - -Duprez, with his sweet, weak voice, did well in the aria; the overtures -and _Resurrexit_ were also a success, but the trio with chorus was a -regular failure. - -Not only was the trio miserably sung, but the chorus missed its entry -and never came in at all! - -I need hardly say that, after paying expenses, including the chorus -that held its tongue in such a masterly manner, I was completely -cleaned out. - -However, the concert was a most useful lesson to me. - -Not only did I become known to artists and public, which (_pace_ -Cherubini!) was a necessity, but, by doggedly facing the innumerable -difficulties of a composer, I gained most valuable experience. - -Several of the papers praised me, and even Fétis--Fétis, who -afterwards[4] ... spoke of me, in a drawing-room, as a coming man. - -But what of Miss Smithson? - -Alas! I found out that, absorbed in her own engrossing work, of me and -my concert she never heard a whisper! - - - _To_ HUMBERT FERRAND. - - “_6th June 1828._--Are you parched with anxiety to know the - result of my concert? I have only waited in order to send you the - papers too. Triumphant success! After the applause at the general - rehearsals of Friday and Saturday I had no more misgivings. - - “Our beloved _Pastoral_ was ruined by the chorus that only found - out it had not come in just as the whole thing finished. But oh, - the _Resurrexit_! and oh, the applause! As soon as one round - finished another began until, being unable to stand it all, I - doubled up on the kettle-drum and cried hard. - - “Why were you not there, dear friend, faithful champion? I thought - of and longed for you. - - “At that wild trombone and ophicleide solo in the _Francs-Juges_, - one of the first violins shouted: - - “‘The rainbow is the bow of your - violin, the winds play your organ and the seasons beat time!’ - - “Whereupon the whole orchestra started applauding a thought of - which they could not possibly grasp the extent. The drummer by my - side seized my arm, ejaculating, ‘Superb--sublime,’ while I tore my - hair and longed to shriek: - - “‘Monstrous! Gigantic! Horrible!’ - - “All the opera people were present, and there was no end to - the congratulations. The most pleased were Habeneck, Dérivis, - Dupont, Mademoiselle Mori, Hérold, etc. Nothing was lacking to my - success--not even the criticisms of Panseron and Brugnières, who - say my style is new and bad, and that such writing is not to be - encouraged. - - “My dear, dear fellow! in pity send me an opera. How can I write - without a book? For heaven’s sake finish something!” - - “_June._--All day long I have been tearing about the country, - leagues upon leagues, and I still live. I feel so lonely! Send me - something to work at, some bone to gnaw! The country was lovely; - the people all looked happy. In the flooding light the trees - rustled softly; but, oh! I was alone--all alone in that wide plain. - Space, time, oblivion, pain and rage held me in their terrific - grasp. Struggle wildly as I might, life seemed to escape me; I held - but a few pitiful fragments in my trembling hands. - - “Oh! the horror, at my age and with my temperament, to have these - harrowing delusions, and, with them, the miserable persecutions - of my family! My father has again stopped my allowance; my sister - writes to-day that he is immovable. Oh, for money! money! Money - _does_ bring happiness. - - “Still ... my heart beats as if with joy, the blood courses through - my veins. - - “Bah! I am all right. Joy, hang it! I will have joy!” - - “_Sunday morning._ - - “DEAR FRIEND,--Do not worry over my aberrations--the - crisis is past. I cannot explain in a letter, which might go - astray; but I beg you will not breathe a word of my state of mind - to anyone, it might get round to my father and distress him. All - that I can do is suffer in silence until time changes my fate. - - “Yesterday’s wild excursion did for me entirely. I can hardly - move.--_Adieu._” - -In an artist’s life sometimes wild tempests succeed each other with -bewildering rapidity, and so it was with me about this time. - -Hardly had I recovered from the successive shocks of Weber and -Shakespeare, when above my horizon burst the sun of glorious Beethoven -to melt for me that misty inmost veil of the holiest shrine in music, -as Shakespeare had lifted that of poetry. - -To Habeneck, with all his shortcomings, is due the credit of -introducing the master he adored to Paris. In order to found the -Conservatoire concerts, now of world-wide fame, he had to face -opposition, abuse and irony, and to inspire with his own ardour a set -of men who, not being Beethoven enthusiasts, did not see the force of -slaving for poor pay at music that, to them, appeared simply eccentric. - -Oh! the nonsense I have heard them airing on those miracles of -inspiration and learning--the symphonies! - -Even Lesueur--honest, but devoted to antiquated dogmas--stood aside -with Cherubini, Päer, Kreutzer and Catel, until, one day, I swept him -off to hear the great C minor symphony. - -I told him it was his duty to know and appreciate personally such a -notable fact as this revelation of a new and glorious style to us, the -children of the old classicism. - -Conscientiously anxious to judge fairly, he would not have me by to -distract him, but shut himself up with strangers at the back of a box. - -The symphony over, I hurried round to hear his verdict, and found him, -with flushed face, striding up and down a passage. - -“Ouf!” he cried, “let me get out; I must have air! It’s incredible! -Marvellous! It has so upset and bewildered me, that when I wanted to -put on my hat I _couldn’t find my head_. Let me go by myself. I will -see you to-morrow.” - -I felt triumphant, and took care to go round next day. We spoke of -nothing but the masterpiece we had heard; yet he seemed to reply to my -ravings rather constrainedly. Still I persevered, until, after dragging -out of him another acknowledgment of his heart-felt appreciation, he -ended, with a curious smile: - -“Yes, it’s all very well; but such music ought not to be written.” - -“No fear, dear master,” I retorted; “there will never be too much of -it!” - -Poor human nature! Poor master! How much regret, envy, -narrow-mindedness; what a dread of the unknown and confession of -incapacity lay beneath your words! “Such music should not be written,” -because the speaker knows instinctively that he himself could never -write it. - -Thus do all great men suffer from their contemporaries. - -Haydn said much the same of Beethoven, whom he called a _great -pianist_. - -Grétry of Mozart, who, he said, had put the statue in the orchestra and -the pedestal on the stage. - -Handel, who said his cook was more of a musician than Gluck. - -Rossini, who vowed that Weber’s music gave him a stomach-ache. - -But the antipathy of the two latter to Gluck and Weber I believe to -be due to quite another reason--a natural inability in these two -comfortable portly gentlemen to understand the point of view of the two -men of heart and sensibility. - -This deliberately obstinate attitude of Lesueur towards Beethoven -opened my eyes to the utter worthlessness of his conservative tenets, -and from that moment I left the broad, smooth road wherein he had -guided my footsteps, for a hard and thorny way over hedges and ditches, -hills and valleys. But I could not hurt the old man by my apostasy, so -did my best to dissimulate my change of mind, and he only found it out -long after, on hearing a composition I had never shewn him. - -It was just at this time that I set out on my treadmill round as critic -for the papers. - -Ferrand, Cazalès and de Carné--well-known political names--agreed -to start a periodical to air their views, which they called _Révue -Européenne_, and Ferrand suggested that I should undertake the musical -correspondence. - -“But I can’t write,” I objected; “my prose is simply detestable. And, -besides----” - -“No, it is not,” said Ferrand; “have I not got your letters? You will -soon be knocked into shape. Besides, we shall revise what you write -before it is printed. Come along to de Carné and hear all about it.” - -What a weapon this writing for the press would be wherewith to -defend truth and beauty in art! So, ignorant of the web of fate I -was throwing around my own shoulders, I smiled innocently and walked -straight into the meshes. - -I was likely to be diffident of my writing powers, for, once before, -being furious at the attacks made upon Gluck by the Rossini faction, I -asked M. Michaud, of the _Quotidienne_, to let me reply. He consented, -and I said to myself, gaily: - -“Now, you brutes, I have got you; I’ll smite you hip and thigh!” - -But I smote no one and nothing. - -My utter ignorance of journalism, of the ways of the world, of press -etiquette and my untamed musical passions, landed me in a regular bog. -My article went far beyond the bounds of newspaper warfare, and M. -Michaud’s hair stood on end. - -“But, my dear fellow, you know, I cannot possibly publish a thing like -that. You are pulling people’s houses down about their ears. Take it -back and whittle it down a bit.” - -But I was too lazy and too disgusted, so there it ended. - -This laziness of mine does not apply to composition, which comes -naturally to me. Hour after hour I labour at a score, sometimes for -eight hours at a time; no work is too minute, no pains too great. - -Prose, however, is always a burden. Sometimes I go back eight or ten -times to an article for the _Journal des Débats_; even a subject I -like takes me at least two days. And what blots, what scrawls, what -erasures! My first copy is a sight to behold. - -Propped up by Ferrand, I wrote for the _Révue Européenne_ appreciative -articles on Beethoven, Gluck and Spontini that made a certain mark, and -thus began my apprenticeship to the difficult and dangerous work that -has taken such a fatal hold on my life. - -Never since have I shaken myself free, and strangely diversified have -been its influences on my career both in France and abroad. - - - - -XIII - -AN ACADEMY EXAMINATION - - -Torn by my Shakespearian love, which seemed intensified instead of -diverted by the influence of Beethoven; dreamy, unsociable, taciturn to -the verge of moroseness, untidy in dress, unbearable alike to myself -and my friends, I dragged on until June 1828 when, for the third time, -I tempted fate at the Institute and won a second prize. - -This was a gold medal of small value, but it carried with it a free -pass to all the lyric theatres, and a fair prospect of the first prize -the following year. - -The Prix de Rome was much better worth having. It insured three -thousand francs a year for five years, of which the two first must be -spent in Italy, and the third in Germany. The remaining two might be -passed in Paris, after which the winner was left to sink or swim at his -own sweet will. - -This is how the affair was worked until 1865, when the Emperor revised -the statutes. I shall hardly be believed, but, since I won both prizes, -I only state what I know to be absolutely true. - -The competition was open to any Frenchman under thirty, who must go -through the preliminary examination, which weeded out all but the most -promising half dozen. - -The subject set is always a lyric scena, and by way of finding out -whether the candidates have melody, dramatic force, instrumentation, -and other knowledge necessary for writing such a scena, they are set -down to compose a _vocal fugue_! _Each fugue must be signed._ - -Next day the musical section of the Academy sits in judgment on -the fugues, and, since some of the signatures are those of the -Academicians’ pupils, this performance is not entirely free from the -charge of partiality. - -The successful competitors then have dictated to them the classical -poem on which they are to work. It always begins this way: - - “And now the rosy-fingered dawn;” - -or, - - “And now with lustre soft the horizon glows;” - -or, - - “And now fair Phœbus’ shining car draws near;” - -or, - - “And now with purple pomp the mountains decked.” - -Armed with this inspiring effusion the young people are locked up in -their little cells with pens, paper, and piano until their work is done. - -Twice a day they are let out to feed, but they may not leave the -Institute building. Everything brought in for their use is carefully -searched lest outside help should be given, yet every day, from six -to eight, they may have visitors and invite their friends to jovial -dinners, at which any amount of assistance--verbal or written--might be -given. - -This lasts for twenty-two days, but anyone who has finished sooner is -at liberty to go, leaving his manuscript--_signed as before_--with the -secretary. - -Then the grave and reverend signors of the jury assemble, -having added to their number two members of any other section -of the Institute--either engravers, painters, sculptors or -architects--anything, in short, but musicians. - -You see, they are so thoroughly competent to judge an art of which they -know nothing. - -There they sit and solemnly listen to these scenas boiled down on -a piano. How _could_ anyone profess to judge an orchestral work -like that? It might do for simple old-fashioned music, but nothing -modern--that is, if the composer knows how to marshal the forces at his -command--could by any possibility be rendered on the piano. - -Try the Communion March from Cherubini’s great Mass. What becomes -of those long-drawn, mystical wind-notes that fill one’s soul with -religious ecstasy; of those exquisitely interwoven flutes and clarinets -to which the whole effect is due? - -They have completely vanished, since the piano can neither hold nor -inflate a sound. - -Does it not follow, then, that the piano, by reducing every -tone-character to one dead level, becomes a guillotine whereby the -noblest heads are laid low and mediocrity alone survives? - -Well! After this precious performance the prize is awarded, and you -conclude that this is the end of it all? - -Not a bit! A week later the whole thirty-five Academicians, painters -and architects and sculptors and engravers on copper and engravers of -medals all turn up to give the final verdict. - -They do not shut out the six musicians, although they are going to -judge music. - -Again the pianists and the singers go through the compositions, then -round goes the fatal urn, in order that the judgment of the previous -week may be confirmed, modified, or reversed. - -Justice compels me to add that the musicians return the compliment by -going to judge the other arts, of which they are as blindly ignorant as -are their colleagues of music. - -On the day of the distribution of prizes the chosen cantata is -performed by a full orchestra. It seems just a little late; it might -have been more serviceable to get the orchestra before judgment--seeing -that after this there is no repeal--but the Academy is inquisitive; -it really does wish to know something about the work it has crowned. -Laudable curiosity! - - * * * * * - -In my time there was an old doorkeeper at the Institute whose -indignation at all this procedure was most amusing. It was his duty to -lock us up and let us out, and, being also usher to the Academicians, -he was on the inside track and made some very odd notes. - -He had been a cabin boy, which at once enlisted my sympathies; for I -always loved sailors, and can listen imperturbably to their long-winded -yarns; no matter how far they wander from the point I am always ready -with a word to set them right again. - -We were the best of friends, Pingard and I. One day, talking of Syria, -he mentioned Volney. - -“M. le Comte,” he said, “was so good and easy-going that he always wore -blue woollen stockings.” - -But his respect for me became unbounded enthusiasm when I asked whether -he knew Levaillant. - -“M. Levaillant!” he cried, “Rather! One day at the Cape I was -sauntering along, whistling, when a big sun-burnt man with a beard -turned round on me. I suppose he guessed I was French from my whistle. -Of course I whistle in French, monsieur. - -“‘I say, you young rogue, you’re French?’ - -“‘I should say I was. Givet is my part of -the country.’ - -“‘Oh, you _are_ French?’ - -“‘Yes.’ - -“And he turned his back and strode off. You see I did know M. -Levaillant!” - -The good old boy made such a friend of me that he told me a lot he -would not have dared to repeat to anyone else. - -I remember a lively conversation with him the day I got the second -prize. - -We had a piece of Tasso set that year, towards the end of which the -Queen of Antioch invokes the god of the Christians she has contemned. I -had the impudence to think that, although the last section was marked -_agitato_, this ought to be a prayer, and I wrote it _andante_. I was -rather pleased with it on the whole. - -When I got to the Institute to hear whether the painters and sculptors, -and architects, and engravers of medals, and line-engravers had settled -whether I were a good or bad musician, I ran against Pingard on the -stairs. - -“Well?” I asked, “what have they decided?” - -“Oh, hallo, Berlioz! I am glad you have come. I was hunting for you.” - -“What have I got? Do hurry up! First? Second? Nothing?” - -“Oh, do wait; I’m all of a tremble. Will you believe you were only two -votes short of the first prize?” - -“The first I’ve heard of it.” - -“It’s true, though. The second is all very well, but I call it beastly -that you missed the first by two votes. I am neither a painter, nor a -sculptor, nor an architect, so of course I know nothing about music, -but I’ll be hanged if that _God of the Christians_ of yours didn’t set -my heart gurgling and rumbling to such a tune that if I had met you -that minute I should have--have--stood you a drink!” - -“Thanks awfully, Pingard. I admire your taste. But, I say--you have -been on the Coromandel coast?” - -“Yes, of course. Why?” - -“To Java?” - -“Yes, but----” - -“Sumatra?” - -“Yes.” - -“Borneo?” - -“Yes.” - -“You are a friend of Levaillant?” - -“I should think so. Hand in glove with him.” - -“You know Volney?” - -“The good Count with the blue woollen stockings? Certainly.” - -“Very well, then, you _must_ be a splendid judge of music.” - -“But--why? How?” - -“Well, I don’t know exactly how or why. But it seems to me that your -title is just as good as that of the gentlemen who do judge. Tell me, -though, what happened.” - -“Oh, my goodness! It’s always the same old game. If I had thirty -children, devil take me if one of them should be an artist of any sort. -You see, I am on the inside track, and know how they sell their votes. -It’s nothing but a blessed old shop. See here! Once I heard M. Lethière -asking M. Cherubini for his vote for a pupil.” - -“Don’t refuse, my dear fellow,” he said, “we are such old friends, and -my pupil really has talent.” - -“No, he shall not have my vote,” Cherubini answered. “He promised my -wife an album of drawings that she wanted badly. He hasn’t even done -her a single tree!” - -“That’s rather too bad of you,” said M. Lethière. “I vote for your -people, and you might vote for mine. Look here! I’ll do you the album -myself. I can’t say more than that.” - -“Ah, that’s another pair of boots. What is your pupil’s name and -picture? I must not get muddled. Pingard, a pencil and paper!” - -“They went off into the window corner and wrote something, then I heard -the musician say-- - -“All right, I will vote for him.” - -“Now, isn’t that disgusting? If I had had a son in the competition and -they had played him a trick like that, wouldn’t it have been enough to -make me chuck myself out of window?” - -“Come, Pingard, calm down a bit and tell me about to-day.” - -“Well, when M. Dupont had finished singing your cantata they began -writing their verdicts, and I brought the hurn” (Pingard always would -stick in that “h”). “There was a musician close by whispering to an -architect, ‘Don’t give him your vote; he’s no good at all, and never -will be. He is gone on that eccentric creature Beethoven, and we shall -never get him right again.’ ‘Really!’ said the architect. ‘Yet--’ -‘Well, ask Cherubini. You will take his word, won’t you? He will tell -you that Beethoven has turned the fellow’s head--’ I beg pardon,” said -Pingard, breaking off his story, “but who is this M. Beethoven? He -doesn’t belong to the Academy, and yet everyone seems to be talking of -him.” - -“No, no! He’s a German. Go on.” - -“There isn’t much more. When I passed the hurn to the architect I saw -that he gave his vote to No. 4 instead of to you. Suddenly one of the -musicians said, ‘Gentlemen, I think you ought to know that, in the -second part of the score we have just heard, there is an exceedingly -clever and effective piece of orchestration to which the piano cannot -do justice. This ought to be taken into consideration.’ ‘Don’t tell us -a cock-and-bull story like that,’ cried another musician. ‘Your pupil -has broken the rules and written two quick arias instead of one, and he -has put in an extra prayer. We cannot allow rules to be set at nought -like this; it would be establishing a precedent.’ ‘Oh, this is too -ridiculous! What says the secretary?’ ‘I think that we might pardon -a _certain_ amount of licence, and that the jury should distinctly -understand that passage that you say cannot be properly given by the -piano.’ ‘No, no!’ cried Cherubini, ‘it’s all nonsense. There is no such -clever piece of work. It is a regular jumble, and would be abominable -for the orchestra.’ - -“Then on all sides rose the architects, painters, sculptors, etc., -saying, ‘Gentlemen, for pity’s sake agree somehow! We can only judge -by what we hear, and if you will not agree--’ And all began to talk at -once, and it became distinctly a bore, so M. Régnault and two others -marched out without voting. They counted the votes. You only got second -prize.” - -“Thanks, Pingard, but, I say--they manage things better at the Cape -Academy, don’t they?” - -“The Cape? Why, you know they have not got one. Fancy a Hottentot -Academy!” - -“Well then, Coromandel?” - -“None there.” - -“Java?” - -“None either.” - -“What, no Academy at all in the East? Poor Orientals!” - -“They manage to get along pretty well without.” - -“What outer barbarians!” - -I bade the old usher good-bye, thinking what a blessing it would be if -I could send the Academy to civilise Borneo. - -Two years later the Prix de Rome was mine, but poor old Pingard was -dead. It was a pity. - -If he had heard my “Burning of the Palace of Sardanapalus” he might -have stood me ... two drinks! - - - - -XIV - -FAUST--CLEOPATRA - - -Again I relapsed into my habitual gloom and indolence. Like a dead -invisible planet I circled round that radiant sun that alas! was -doomed so soon to fade into mournful oblivion. - -Estelle, star of my dawn, was eclipsed and lost in the noontide -brilliance of her mighty rival--my overwhelming and glorious love. - -Although I took care never to pass the theatre, never willingly -to look at Othelia’s portraits in the shop windows, yet still I -wrote--receiving never a sign in reply. My first letters frightened -her, and she bade her maid take her no more. - -The company was going to Holland, and its last nights were advertised. -Still I kept away; to see her again was more than I could bear. - -However, hearing that she was to act two scenes from _Romeo and Juliet_ -with Abbott, for the benefit of Huet, the actor, I had a sudden fancy -to see my own name on a placard beside that of the great actress. - -I _might_ be successful under her very eyes! - -Full of this childish notion I got permission from the manager and -conductor of the Opéra Comique to add an overture of my own to the -programme. - -On going to rehearsal I found the English company just finishing; -broken-hearted Romeo held Juliet in his arms. At sight of the group I -gave a hoarse, despairing cry and wringing my hands wildly, I fled from -the theatre. Juliet saw and heard me; terror-stricken she pointed me -out to those around, begging them to _beware of the gentleman with the -wild eyes_. - -An hour later I went back to an empty theatre. The orchestra assembled -and my overture was run through--like a sleep walker I listened, -hearing nothing--when the performers applauded me I wondered vaguely -whether Miss Smithson would like it too! Fool that I was!! - -It seems impossible that I could, even then, have been so ignorant -of the world as not to know that, be the overture what it may, at a -benefit, no one in the audience listens. Still less the actors, who -only arrive in time for their turns and trouble themselves not at all -about the music. - -My overture was well played, fairly received--but not encored--Miss -Smithson heard nothing of it and left next day for Holland. - -By a strange chance (I could never get her to believe it _was_ chance) -I had taken lodgings at 96 Rue de Richelieu, opposite her house. Worn -out, half dead, I lay upon my bed until three the next afternoon; then, -rising, I crawled wearily to the window. - -Cruel Fate! At that very minute she came out and stepped into her -carriage _en route_ for Amsterdam. - -Was ever misery like mine? - -Oh God! my deadly, awful loneliness; my bleeding heart! Could I bear -that leaden weight of anguish, that empty world; that hatred of life; -that shuddering shrinking from impossible death? - -Even Shakespeare has not described it; he simply counts it, in -_Hamlet_, the cruellest burden left in life. - -Could I bear more? - -I ceased to write; my brain grew numb as my suffering increased. One -power alone was left me--to suffer. - - - _To_ HUMBERT FERRAND. - - “GRENOBLE, _Sept. 1828_. - - “DEAR FRIEND,--I cannot go to you; come to me at La - Côte! We will read _Hamlet_ and _Faust_ together, Shakespeare - and Goethe! Silent friends who know all my misery, who alone can - fathom my strange wild life. Come, do come! No one here understands - the passion of genius. The sun blinds them, they think it mere - extravagance. I have just written a ballad on the King of Thule, - you shall have it to put in your _Faust_--if you have one. - - “‘Horatio, thou art e’en as just a man - As e’er my conversation cop’d withal.’ - - “I am wretched. Do not be so cruel as not to come!” - - “PARIS, _November 1828_.[5] - - “Forgive me for not writing sooner; I was so ill, so stupid, it was - better to wait. - - “La Fontaine might well say: ‘Absence is the greatest of ills.’ - She is gone; this time to Bordeaux and I live no more; or rather I - live too acutely, for I suffer, hourly, the agonies of death. I can - hardly drag through my work. - - “You know that I am appointed Superintendent of the Gymnase-Lyrique - and have to choose or replace the players and to take care of - instruments, parts and scores. - - “Subscribers are coming in; so are malicious anonymous letters. - Cherubini sits on the fence wondering whether to help or to hinder - us, and we go calmly on. - - “I have not seen Châteaubriand; he is in the country, but I will - speak of your piece directly I do.” - - “_End of 1828._ - - “Do you know M. d’Eckstein, and can you give me an introduction to - him? I hear that he is connected with a new and powerful paper,[6] - in which Art is to be given prominence. If I am considered good - enough, I should like to be musical correspondent. Help me if you - can.” - -Another landmark in my life was the reading of Goethe’s _Faust_; I -could not lay it down, but read and read and read--at table, in the -streets, in the theatres. - -Although a prose translation, songs and rhymed pieces were scattered -throughout, and these I set to music, then, without having heard a note -of them, was crazy enough to have them engraved. A few copies, under -the title of _Eight Scenes from Faust_ were sold in Paris, and one fell -into the hands of M. Marx, the great Berlin critic, who wrote most -kindly to me about it. This unexpected encouragement from such a source -gave me real pleasure, particularly as the writer did not dwell too -much on my many and great faults. I know some of the ideas were good, -since I afterwards used them for the _Damnation de Faust_, but I know, -also, how hopelessly crude and badly written they were. As soon as I -realised this, I collected and burnt all the copies I could lay hands -on. - -Under Goethe’s influence I wrote my _Symphonie Fantastique_--very -slowly and laboriously in some parts, incredibly quickly and easily in -others. The _Scène aux Champs_ worried me for three weeks, over and -over again I gave it up, but the _Marche au Supplice_ was dashed off in -a single night. Of course they were afterwards touched and retouched. - -Bloc, being anxious that my new symphony should be heard, suggested -that I should be allowed to give a concert at the Théâtre des -Nouveautés. - -The directors, attracted by the eccentricity of my work, agreed, and I -invited eighty performers to help, in addition to Bloc’s orchestra. On -my making enquiries about accommodation for such an army of executants -the manager replied, with the calm assurance of ignorance: - -“Oh, that’s all right. Our property man knows his business.” The day -of rehearsal arrived, and so did my hundred and thirty musicians--with -nowhere to put them! - -I just managed to squeeze the violins into the orchestra, and then -arose an uproar that would have driven a calmer man than myself out of -his senses. Cries for chairs, desks, candles, strings, room for the -drums, etc., etc. Scene shifters tore up and down improvising desks and -seats, Bloc and I worked like sixty--but it was all useless; a regular -rout; a passage of the Bérésina. - -However Bloc insisted on trying two movements to give the directors -some idea of the whole. So, all in a muddle, we struggled through the -_Ball Scene_ and the _Marche au Supplice_, the latter calling forth -frantic applause. - -But my concert never came off. The directors said that “they had no -idea so many arrangements were necessary for a symphony.” Thus my hopes -were dashed, and all for want of a few desks. Since then I always look -into the smallest details for myself. - -Wishing to console me for this disappointment, Girard, conductor of the -Théâtre Italien, asked me to write something shorter than my unlucky -symphony, that he could have carefully performed at his theatre. - -I therefore wrote a dramatic fantasia with choruses on the _Tempest_, -but no sooner did he see it than he said: - -“This is too big for us; it must go to the opera.” - -Without loss of time I interviewed M. Lubbert, director of the Royal -Academy. To my relief and delight, he at once agreed to have it played -at a concert for the Artists’ Benevolent Fund that was to take place -shortly. My name was known to him through my Conservatoire concert, and -he had seen notices of me in the papers. He, therefore, believed in -me, put me through no humiliating examination, gave me his word, and -kept it religiously. - - “He was a man, Horatio.” - -All went splendidly at rehearsal; Fétis did his best for me, and -everything seemed to smile, when, with my usual luck, an hour before -the concert there broke over Paris the worst storm that had been known -for fifty years. The streets were flooded and practically impassable, -and during the first half of the concert, when my _Tempest_--damned -tempest!--was being played, there were not more than three hundred -people in the place. - - - _Extracts from Letters to_ H. FERRAND. - - “_April 1829._--Here is _Faust_, dear friend. Could you, without - stinting yourself, lend me another hundred francs to pay the - printer? I would rather borrow from you than from anyone else; yet - had you not offered, I should not have dared to ask. Your opera - (_Franc-Juges_) is splendid. You are indeed a poet! That finale of - the Bohemians at the end of the first act is a master stroke. I do - not believe anything so original has ever been done in a libretto - before. And I repeat, it is magnificent.” - - “_June._--No word from you for three months. Why is it? Does your - father suppress our letters, or can it be that you, at last, - believe the slanders you hear of me? - - “I got a pupil, so have managed to pay the printer. - - “I am very happy, life is charming--no pain, no despair, plenty - of day dreams; to crown all, the _Francs-Juges_ has been refused - by the Opera Committee! They find it long and obscure, only the - Bohemian scene pleases them; but Duval thinks it remarkable and - says there is a future for it. - - “I am going to make an opera like _Freyschütz_ of it, and if I win - the prize perhaps Spohr (who is not jealous, but is most helpful to - young musicians) will let me try it at Cassel. - - “No word have I had from you since I spoke of my hopeless love. - Nothing more has happened. This passion will be my death; how often - one hears that hope alone keeps love alive--am I not a living proof - of the contrary? - - “All the English papers ring with her praises; I am unknown! When - I have written something great, something stupendous, I must go to - London to have it performed. Oh for success!--success under her - very eyes. - - “I am writing a life of Beethoven for the _Correspondant_, and - cannot find a minute for composition--the rest of my time I copy - out parts. What a life!” - -Once more came June, and with it my third attempt on the Prix de Rome. -This time I really did hope, for not only had I gained a second prize, -but I heard that the musical judges thought well of me. - -Being over-confident I reasoned (falsely, as it turned out), “Since -they have decided to give me the prize, I need not bother to write -exactly in the style that suits them; I will compose a really artistic -cantata.” - -The subject was Cleopatra after Actium. Dying in convulsions, she -invokes the spirits of the Pharaohs, demanding--criminal though she -be--whether she dare claim a place beside them in their mighty tombs. -It was a magnificent theme, and I had often pondered over Juliet’s-- - - “But if when I am laid into the tomb,” - -which is, at least in terror of approaching death, analogous to the -appeal of the Egyptian Queen. - -I was fool enough to head my score with those very words--the -unpardonable sin to my Voltairean judges--and wrote what seemed to me -a weird and dramatic piece, well suited to the words. I afterwards -used it, unchanged, for the _Chorus of Shades_ in _Lelio_; I think it -deserved the prize. But it did not get it. None of the compositions -did. Rather than give it to a “young composer of such revolutionary -tendencies” they withheld it altogether. - -Next day I met Boïeldieu, who, on seeing me, said: - -“My dear boy, what on earth possessed you? The prize was in your hand, -and you simply threw it away.” - -“But, monsieur, I really did my best.” - -“That’s just it! Your _best_ is the opposite of your _good_. How could -I possibly approve? I, who like nice gentle music--cradle-music, one -might say.” - -“But, monsieur, could an Egyptian queen, passionate, remorseful, and -despairing, die in mortal anguish of body and soul to the sound of -cradle-music?” - -“Oh, come! come! I know you have plenty of excuses, but they go for -nothing. You might at least have written gracefully.” - -“Gladiators could die gracefully, but not Cleopatra. She had not to die -in public.” - -“There! you _will_ exaggerate so! No one expects her to dance a -quadrille. Why need you introduce such odd, queer harmonies into that -invocation? I am not well up in harmony, and I must own that those -outlandish chords of yours are beyond me.” - -I bit my lip, not daring to make the obvious reply: - -“Is it my fault that you know no harmony?” - -“And then,” he went on, “why do you introduce a totally new rhythm in -your accompaniments? I never heard anything like it.” - -“I did not understand, monsieur, that we were not to try new modes if -we were fortunate enough to find the right place for them.” - -“But, my dear good fellow, Madame Dabadie is a capital musician, yet -one could see it took all her care and talent to get her through.” - -“Really, monsieur, I have yet to learn that music can be sung without -either talent or care.” - -“Well, well! you will have the last word. But do be warned for next -year. Come and see me and we will talk it over like _French gentlemen_.” - -And, chuckling over the point he had made (for his last words were a -quotation from his own _Jean de Paris_), he walked off. - -Yes, Boïeldieu was right. The Parisians liked soothing music, even -for the most dramatic and harrowing situations. Pretty, innocent, -gentlemanly music, pleasant and making no demand upon one’s deepest -feelings. - -Later on they wanted something different, and now they do not know what -they want, or rather they want nothing at all. Ah me! what was the good -God thinking of when He dropped me down in this pleasant land of France? - -Yet I love her whenever I can forget her idiotic politics. How gay -she is, how dainty in wit, how bright in retort--how she boasts and -swaggers and humbugs, royally and republicanly! I am not sure, though, -that this last _is_ amusing. - - - - -XV - -A NEW LOVE - - - _To_ HUMBERT FERRAND. - - “_July 1829._--I am sorry I did not send your music before, but - I may as well own that I am short of money. My father has taken - another whim and sends me nothing, so I could not afford the - thirty or forty francs for the copying. I could not do it myself, - as I was shut up in the Institute. That abominable but necessary - competition! My only chance of getting the filthy lucre, without - which life is impossible. - - ‘Auri sacra fames quid non mortalia pectora cogis!’ - - My father would not even pay my expenses in the Institute. M. - Lesueur did so for me.” - - “_August._--Forgive my negligence. My only excuses are the Academy - competition and the new pangs of my despised love. My heart can - be likened only to a virgin forest, struck and kindled by the - thunderbolt; now and again the fire smoulders, then comes the - whirlwind, and in a second the trees are a mass of living, hissing - flame and all is death and desolation. - - “I will spare you a description of the latest blows. - - “That shameful competition! - - “Boïeldieu says I go further than Beethoven, and he cannot even - understand Beethoven; and that, to write like that, _I must have - the most hearty contempt for the Academicians!_ Auber told me much - the same thing, and added, ‘You hate the commonplace, but you need - never be afraid of writing platitudes. The best advice I can give - you is to write as insipidly as you can, and when you have got - something that sounds to you horribly flat, _you will have just - what they want!_’ - - “That is all very well, but when I go writing for butchers and - bakers and candlestick-makers I certainly shall not go to the - passion-haunted, crime-stained Queen of Egypt for a text.” - - - _To_ FERDINAND HILLER. - - “1829.--What is this overwhelming emotion, this intense power of - suffering that is killing me? Ask your guardian angel, that bright - spirit that has opened to you the gate of Heaven. Oh, my friend! - can you believe that I have burnt the manuscript of my prose elegy? - I have Ophelia ever before me; her tears, her tragic voice; the - fire of her glorious eyes burns into my soul--I am so miserable, so - inexpressibly unhappy, oh, my friend! - - “I seem to see Beethoven looking down on me with calm severity; - Spontini--safely cured of woes like mine--with his pitying - indulgent smile; Weber from the Elysian Fields, whispers consoling - words into my ear.... - - “Mad, mad, mad! is this sense for a student of the Institute; a - domino-player of the Café de la Régence? - - “Nay, I _will_ live--live for music--the highest thing in life - except true love! Both make me utterly miserable but at least I - shall have lived! Lived, it is true, by suffering, by passion, by - lamentation and by tears--yet I _shall_ have lived! Dear Ferdinand! - a year ago to-day I saw _her_ for the last time. Is there for us a - meeting in another world? - - “Ah, me! miserable! Alone! cursed with imagination beyond my - physical strength, torn by unbounded, unsatisfied love!--still, I - have known the great ones of the heaven of music; I have laughed - as I basked in the radiance of their glory! Immortals, stretch out - your hands, raise me to the shelter of your golden clouds that I - may be at rest! - - “Voice of Reason: - - “‘Peace, fool! ere many years have - passed your pain will be no more.’ - - Henriette Smithson and -Hector Berlioz - - will rest in the oblivion of the grave and other unfortunates will - also suffer and die!” ... - - - _To_ H. FERRAND. - - “_November 1829._--Oh Ferrand! Ferrand! why were you not here for - my concert? Yesterday I was so ill that I could not crawl; to-day - the fire of hell that inspired my _Francs-Juges_ overture, courses - through my veins. - - “All my heart, my passion, my love are in that overture. - - “After the crowd had dispersed the performers waited for me in the - courtyard and greeted me with wild applause. At the Opera in the - evening it was the same thing--a regular ferment! - - “My friend, my friend! Had you but been there! - - “But it was more than I could stand, and now I am a prey to the - most awful depression and despair; tears choke me, I long to die. - - “After all, there will be a small profit--about a hundred and fifty - francs, of which I must give two-thirds to Gounet, who so kindly - lent it me--I think he is more in need than you. But my debt to you - troubles me, and as soon as I can get together enough to be worth - sending, you shall have it.” ... - - * * * * * - - “_December._--I am bored! wretched! That is nothing new, but I get - more and more soul-weary, more utterly bored as time goes on. I - devour time as ducks gobble water, in order to live and, like the - ducks, I find nothing but a few scrubby insects for nourishment. - What will become of me! What shall I do!” - - - _To_ H. FERRAND. - - “_January 1830._--I do not know where to turn for money. I have - only two pupils, they bring me in forty-four francs a month; I - still owe you money besides the hundred francs to Gounet--this - eternal penury, these constant debts, even to such old and tried - friends as you, weigh on me terribly. Then again your father still - nurses the mistaken idea that I am a gambler--I, who never touch a - card and have never set foot in a gaming house--and the thought - that he disapproves of our friendship nearly drives me mad. For - pity’s sake, write soon!” - - * * * * * - - “_February._--Again, without warning and without reason, my - ill-starred passion wakes. She is in London, yet I feel her - presence ever with me. I listen to the beating of my heart, it is - like a sledge-hammer, every nerve in my body quivers with pain. - - “Woe upon her! Could she but dream of the poetry, the infinite - bliss of such love as mine, she would fly to my arms, even though - my embrace should be her death. - - “I was just going to begin my great symphony (_Episode in an - Artist’s Life_) to depict the course of this infernal love of - mine--but I can write nothing.” - - * * * * * - - “_May._--Your letter comforts me, dear friend, how good it is to - be blessed with a friend such as you! A man of heart, of soul, of - imagination! How rare that kindred spirits such as ours should meet - and sympathise. - - “Words fail to tell the joy your affection gives me. You need not - fear for me with Henriette Smithson. I am no longer in danger - in that quarter; I pity and despise her. She is nothing but a - commonplace woman with an instinct for expressing the tortures - of the soul that she has never felt; she is quite incapable of - appreciating the noble, all-devouring love with which I honoured - her. - - “The rehearsals of my symphony begin in three days; all the parts - are copied--there are two thousand three hundred pages. I hope to - goodness we shall have good receipts to pay for it all. The concert - takes place on the 30th May. And you alone will not be there! Even - my father wishes to come. Ah, my symphony! - - “I wish the theatre people would somehow plot to get _her_ - there--that wretched woman! But she certainly would not go if she - read my programme. She could not but recognise herself. What will - people say? My story is so well known.” - -At this time a new influence came into my life which, for a time, -eclipsed my Shakespearian passion. - -Hiller, the German composer-pianist, whom I had known intimately ever -since his arrival in Paris, fell violently in love with Marie Moke, a -beautiful and talented girl, who, later on, became one of our greatest -pianists. - -Her interest in me was aroused by Hiller’s account of my mental -sufferings, and--so Fate willed--we were thrown much together at a -boarding-school where we both gave lessons--she on the piano and I -on--the guitar! Odd though it be, I still figure in the prospectus of -Madame d’Aubré as professor of that noble instrument. - -Meeting Mademoiselle Moke constantly, her dainty beauty and bewitching -mockery of my high-tragedy airs and dismal visage soon turned my -thoughts from my absorbing passion and won her a shrine in my heart. -She was but eighteen! - -Hiller, poor fellow, behaved admirably. He recognised that it was Fate, -not treachery on my part and, heart-broken as he was, he wished me -every happiness and left for Frankfort. - -This is all I need say of this violent interlude that, by stirring my -senses, turned me aside for a while from the mighty love that really -held my heart. In my Italian journey I will tell of the dramatic -sequel. Mademoiselle Moke nearly proved the proverb that it is not well -to play with fire! - - * * * * * - -In 1830 the Competition took place later than usual--on the 15th July. -For the fifth time I went up, firmly resolved, if I should fail, to go -no more. - -As I finished my cantata the Revolution broke out and the Institute was -a curious sight. Grape shot rattled on the barred doors, cannon balls -shook the façade, women screamed and, in the momentary pauses, the -interrupted swallows took up their sweet, shrill cry. I hurried over -the last pages of my cantata, and on the 29th was free to maraud about -the streets, pistol in hand, with the “blessed riffraff” as Barbier -said. - -I shall never forget the look of Paris during those few days. The -frantic bravery of the gutter-snipe, the enthusiasm of the men, the -calm, sad resignation of the Swiss and Royal Guards, the odd pride of -the mob in being “masters of Paris and looting nothing.” One day, just -after this harmonious revolution, I had a strange musical shock. - -Going through the Palais Royal, I heard some young men singing a -familiar air; it was my own: - - “Forget not our wounded companions, who stood - In the day of distress by our side; - While the moss of the valley grew red with their blood - They stirred not, but conquered and died.”[7] - -Not used to such fame I, in great delight, asked the leader whether I -might join in, and incontinently began a hot argument with him as to -the time at which it should be taken. Of course I was not recognised. - -As we sang, three of the National Guard handed round their shakos to -collect money for the wounded and there was a welcome deluge of five -franc pieces. The crowd increased and our breathing space became less -and less; we should have ended in being smothered had not a kindly -haberdasher asked us up to her first floor windows, that looked out -upon the covered gallery, whence we could rain down our music upon -the crowd below, as the Pope does his blessing from the balcony of St -Peter’s. - -First we gave them the _Marseillaise_. At the opening bar the noisy -crowd stood motionless; at the end of the second verse the same -silence; even so with the third. Irate at their apparent coldness, I -roared out-- - -“Confound it all! SING!” - -And they sang. - -Remember, those four or five thousand tightly packed people were--men, -women and children--hot from the barricades, inflamed with lust for -combat, and imagine how their - - “Aux armes, citoyens!” - -rolled out. - -Aghast at the explosion we had provoked, our little band stood silent -as birds after a thunder clap. - -I, literally not metaphorically, sank on the floor. - -Some time before this I had arranged the _Marseillaise_ for full -orchestra and double chorus and had dedicated it to Rouget de Lisle, -who wrote inviting me to go and see him at Choisy, as he had several -proposals to make to me. - -Unfortunately I could not go then, as I was on the point of starting -for Italy, and he died before I returned. I only heard much later that -he had written many fine songs besides the _Marseillaise_ and had also -a libretto for _Othello_ put aside; it is probably this that he wished -to discuss with me. - -As soon as peace was patched up and Louis Philippe introduced by -Lafayette as “the best of republics” the Academy started work once more. - -And as the judges, thanks to a piece which I have since burnt, believed -me reclaimed from my heresies, they gave me the first prize. Although, -in former years, I had been greatly disappointed at not getting it I -was not in the least pleased when I did. - -Of course I appreciated its advantages; my parents’ pride, the kudos, -the freedom for five years from money troubles--yet, knowing the system -on which prizes were awarded, could I feel any proper pride in my -success? - -Two months after came the distribution of prizes and the performance of -the successful work. It was all very hackneyed. - -Every year the same musicians perform pieces turned out on the same -pattern; the same prizes, awarded with the same discrimination, are -handed over with the same ceremony. Every year on the same day, at the -same time, standing on the same step of the same staircase, the same -Academician repeats the same words to the winner. - -Day, first Saturday in October; time, four in the afternoon; step, the -third; the Academician--we all know who. - -Then comes the performance with full orchestra (in my case it was -not quite full, for there was only a clarinet and a half, the old -boy who played the first--having only one tooth and being asthmatic -besides--being only able to squeeze out a note here and there). The -conductor raises his baton---- - -The sun rises; ’cello solo, gentle crescendo. - -The little birds wake; flute solo, violin tremolo. - -The little rills gurgle; alto solo. - -The little lambs bleat; oboe solo. - -And as the crescendo goes on and the little birds and little brooks and -little beasts finish their performance, one suddenly discovers that it -is noon; then follow the successive airs up to the third, with which -the hero usually expires and the audience once more breathes freely. - -Then the secretary, holding in one hand the artificial laurel wreath -and in the other the gold medal, worth enough to keep the recipient -until he leaves for Rome (in point of fact, I have proved that it is -worth exactly a hundred and sixty francs) pompously enunciates the name -of the author. - -The laureate rises, - - “His smooth, chaste forehead, newly shorn, - is wreathed with modest blushes.” - -He embraces the secretary--faint applause. He embraces his master, -seated close by--more applause. Next come his mother, his sisters, his -cousins, and his aunts to the tune of more applause; then his fiancée, -after which--treading on people’s toes and tearing ladies’ dresses in -the blind confusion of his headlong career--he regains his seat, bathed -in perspiration. Loud applause and laughter. - -This is the crowning moment, and I know lots of people who go for -nothing but the fun of it. - -I do not say this in bitterness of spirit, although, when my turn came, -neither father nor mother, nor fiancée[8] were there to congratulate -me. My master was ill, my parents estranged, my mistress--ah! - -So I only embraced the secretary, and I do not fancy that my “modest -blushes” were noticed because, instead of being “newly shorn,” my -forehead was buried in a shock of long red hair, which, in conjunction -with certain other points in my physiognomy certainly earned me a place -in the owl tribe. - -Besides, I was not in at all an embrace-inspiring humour that day. -Truth obliges me to confess that I was in a howling, rampant rage. - -I must go back a little and explain why. - -The subject set was the _Last Night of Sardanapalus_, and it ended with -his gathering his most beautiful slaves around him and, with them, -mounting the funeral pyre. - -I was just going to write a symphonic description of the scene--the -cries of the unwilling victims; the king’s proud defiance of the -flames, the crash of the falling palace--when I suddenly bethought me -that that way lay suicide--since the piano, as usual, would be the only -means of interpretation. - -I therefore waited and, as soon as the prize was awarded and I knew I -could not be deprived of it, I wrote my CONFLAGRATION. - -At the final orchestral rehearsal it made such a sensation that several -of the Academicians came up and congratulated me most warmly, without -a trace of pique at the trick I had played upon them. The rumour of it -having gone abroad, the hall was packed--for I found I had already made -a sort of bizarre reputation. - -Not feeling particularly confident in the powers of Grasset, the -conductor, I stood close beside him, manuscript in hand, while Madame -Malibran, who had been unable to find a seat in the hall, sat on a -stool at my elbow between two double-basses. That was the last time I -ever saw her. - -All went smoothly; Sardanapalus assembled his slaves, the fire was -kindled, everyone listened intently, and those who had been at -rehearsal whispered: - -“Now it’s coming. Just listen. It’s simply wonderful!” - -Curses and excommunications upon those musicians who do not count their -rests!! That damned horn, that should have given the signal to the -side-drums, never came in. The drums were afraid to begin, so gave no -signal to the cymbals, nor the cymbals to the big-drum. - -The violins went wobbling on with their futile tremolo and my fire went -out without one crackle! - -Only a composer who has been through a like experience can appreciate -my fury. - -Giving vent to a wild yell of rage, I flung my score smash into the -middle of the band and knocked over two desks. Madame Malibran jumped -as if she had been shot, and the whole place was in an uproar. - -It was a regular catastrophe--worst and cruellest of all I had -hitherto borne; but alas! by no means the last. - - - - -XVI - -LISZT - - - _To_ HUMBERT FERRAND. - - “_24th July 1830._ - - “DEAR FRIEND,--All that the most tender delicate love can - give is mine. My exquisite sylph, my Ariel, loves me more than ever - and her mother says that, had she read of love like mine, she could - not have believed it. - - “I am shut up in the Institute _for the last time_, for the prize - _shall_ be mine this year, our happiness hangs on it. Every other - day Madame Moke sends her maid with messages. Can you credit it, - Humbert? This angel, with the finest talent in Europe, is mine! I - hear that M. de Noailles, in whom her mother believes greatly, has - pleaded my cause, despite my want of money. If only you could hear - my Camille _thinking aloud_ in the divine works of Beethoven and - Weber, you would lose your head as I do.” - - “_23rd August 1830._ - - “I have gained the Prix de Rome. It was awarded unanimously--a - thing that has never been known before. What a joy it is to be - successful when it gives pleasure to those one adores! - - “My sweet Ariel was dying of anxiety when I took her the news, her - dainty wings were all ruffled until I smoothed them with a word. - Even her mother, who does not look too favourably on our love, was - touched to tears. - - “On the 1st November there is to be a concert at the Théâtre - Italien. The new conductor, Girard, whom I know well, has asked me - to write him an overture for it. I am going to take Shakespeare’s - _Tempest_; it will be quite a new style of thing. - - “My great concert with the _Symphonie Fantastique_ is to be on the - 14th November, but I must have a _theatrical_ success; Camilla’s - parents insist upon that as a condition of our marriage. I hope I - shall succeed. - - “I do not want to go to Italy. I shall go and ask the King to let - me off. It is a ridiculous journey for me to take, and I might just - as well be allowed my scholarship in Paris. - - “As soon as I have collected the money you so kindly lent me, you - shall have it. Good-bye, good-bye. I have just come from Madame - Moke’s, from touching the hand of my adored Camille, that is why - mine trembles and my writing is so bad. Yet to-day she has not - played me either Beethoven or Weber. - - “_P.S._--That wretched Smithson girl is still here. I have not seen - her.” - - - _To_ HUMBERT FERRAND. - - “_October 1830._--You will be glad to hear that I am to be heard - at the Opera. All thanks to Camille! In her slender form, witching - grace, and musical genius I found Ariel personified. I have planned - a tremendous overture, which I have submitted to the director. - Ariel! Ariel! Camille! I bless, I adore, I love thee more than poor - language can express. Give me a hundred musicians, a hundred and - fifty voices, then can I tell thee all! - - * * * * * - - “That poor Ophelia comes again and again to my mind. She has lost - more than six thousand francs in the Opéra Comique venture. She is - still here, and met me the other day quite calmly. I was utterly - miserable the whole evening, and went and told Ariel, who laughed - at me tenderly.” - -In spite of all my eloquence, I could not get out of that tiresome -journey to Rome. But I would not leave Paris without having -_Sardanapalus_ performed properly, and for the third time my artist -friends most generously offered me their aid, and Habeneck consented to -conduct. - -The day before the concert Liszt came to see me. We had not, so far, -met. We began talking of _Faust_, which he had not read, but which he -afterwards got to love as I did. We were so thoroughly sympathetic to -each other that, from that day, our friendship neither faltered nor -waned. At my concert everyone noticed his enthusiasm and vociferous -applause. - -As my work is exceedingly complicated, it is not surprising that the -execution was by no means perfect; yet some parts of the Symphony made -a sensation. The _Scène aux Champs_ fell quite flat, and, on the advice -of Ferdinand Hiller, I afterwards entirely rewrote it. - -_Sardanapalus_ was well done, and the _Conflagration_ came off -magnificently. It raised a conflagration in Paris too, in the shape of -a war of musicians and critics. - -Naturally the younger men--particularly those with that sixth sense, -artistic instinct--were on my side, but Cherubini and his gang were -wild with rage. - -He happened to pass the concert-room doors as people were going in, and -a friend stopped him, asking: - -“Are you not coming to hear Berlioz’s new thing?” - -“I need not zat I go hear how sings should not be done,” he replied. - -He was much worse after the concert, and sent for me. - -“You go soon,” he said. - -“Yes, monsieur.” - -“It vill be zat you are cross off ze register of Conservatoire, zat -your studies are finish. But it seem to me zat you should make visit to -me. One goes not out of Conservatoire like out of a stable.” - -I very nearly said: - -“Why not, since we are treated like horses?” but luckily had the good -sense merely to say that I had not the slightest intention of leaving -Paris without saying farewell to him. - -So to Rome, _nolens volens_, I had to go, useless as it seemed. - -The Roman Academy may be of service to painters and sculptors, but, -as far as music is concerned, it is lost time, considering the state -of music in Italy. Neither is the life led by the students exactly -conducive to study and progress. - -Usually the five or six laureates arrange to travel in company, and -share expenses. A coach-driver agrees, for a modest sum, to take charge -of this cargo of great men, and dump it down in Italy. As he never -changes horses it takes a long time, and must be rather amusing. - -I did not try it, as I had to stay in Paris for various reasons -till the middle of January and then wished to go round by La Côte -Saint-André--where my laurel wreath earned me a warm welcome--after -which, alone, and dreary, I turned my face towards Italy. - - - _To_ HUMBERT FERRAND. - - “_November 1830._--Just a few lines in haste to tell you that - I am giving a gigantic concert at the Conservatoire--the - _Francs-Juges_ overture, the _Sacred Song_ and _Warrior’s Song_ - from the Melodies, and _Sardanapalus_ with one hundred performers - for the CONFLAGRATION, and last of all, the _Symphonie - Fantastique_. - - “Come, oh, do come. It will be terrible. Habeneck conducts. The - _Tempest_ is to be played a second time at the Opera. It is new, - fresh, strange, grand, sweet, tender, surprising. Fétis wrote two - splendid articles on it for the _Revue Musicale_. Some one said - to him the other day that I was possessed of a devil. ‘The devil - may possess his body, but, by Jove! a god possesses his head,’ he - retorted. - - “_December._--You really must come; I had a frantic success. They - actually encored the _Marche au Supplice_. I am mad! mad! My - marriage is fixed for Easter 1832, on condition that I do not lose - my pension, and that I go to Italy for a year. My blessed symphony - has done the deed, and won this concession from Camille’s mother. - - “My guardian angel! for months I shall not see her. Why cannot - I--cradled by the wild north wind upon some desolate heath--fall - into the eternal sleep with her arms around me!” - - - _To_ FERDINAND HILLER. - - - “LA CÔTE SAINT-ANDRÉ, _January 1831_.--I am at home once - more, deluged with compliments, caresses, and tender solicitude - by my family, yet I am miserable; my heart barely beats, the - oppression of my soul suffocates me. My parents understand and - forgive. - - “I have been to Grenoble, where I spent half my time in bed, the - other half in calling upon people who bored me to extinction. On my - return I found awaiting me my longed-for letter from Paris. - - “Now comes yours, to spoil all! Devil take you! Was it necessary - to tell me that I am luxuriating in despair, that _no one_ cares - twopence for me, least of all the people for whom I am pining? - - * * * * * - - “In the first place, I am not pining for _people_, but for one - person; in the second, if you have your reasons for judging - her severely I have mine for believing in her implicitly, and I - understand her better than any one. - - “How can you tell what she thinks? What she feels? Because you saw - her gay, and apparently happy, at a concert why should you draw - conclusions adverse to me? If it comes to that, you might have said - the same of me if you had seen me at a family dinner at Grenoble, - with a pretty young cousin on either side of me. - - “My letter is brusque, my friend, but you have upset me terribly. - Write by return and tell me what the world says of my marriage.” - - “_31st January 1831._--Although my overpowering anxiety still - endures, I can write more calmly to-day. I am still too ill to get - up, and the cold is frightful here. - - “Tell me what you mean by this sentence in your last letter: ‘You - wish to make a sacrifice; I fear me sadly that, ere long, you will - be forced to make a most painful one.’ For heaven’s sake never - use ambiguous words to me, above all in connection with _her_. It - tortures me. Tell me frankly what you mean.” - - - - -XVII - -ITALY - -A WILD INTERLUDE - - -The weather was too severe to cross the Alps, I therefore determined -to out-flank them and go by sea from Marseilles. It was the first time -I had seen the sea and, as some days passed before I could hear of a -boat, I spent most of my time wandering over the rocks near Notre Dame -de la Garde. - -After a while I heard of a Sardinian brig bound for Leghorn, and -engaged a passage in her in company with some decent young fellows I -had met in the Cannebière. - -The captain would not undertake to feed us, so, reckoning that we -should make Leghorn in three or four days, we laid in provisions for a -week. - -In fine weather, few things are more delightful than a Mediterranean -voyage--particularly one’s first. Our first few days were glorious; all -my companions were Italians, and had many stories to tell--some true, -some not, but all interesting. One had fought in Greece with Canaris, -another--a Venetian--had commanded Byron’s yacht, and the tales he told -accorded well with what one might expect of the author of _Lara_. - -Time went on, but we got no nearer Leghorn. Each morning, going on -deck, my first question was, “What town is that?” and the eternal -answer was, “Nizza, signor, still Nizza.” I began to think that the -charming town of Nice had some sort of magnetic attraction for our boat. - -I found out my mistake when a furious Alpine wind burst down upon -us. The captain, to make up for lost time, crowded on all sail and -the vessel heeled over and drove furiously before the gale. Towards -evening we made the Gulf of Spezzia, and the tramontana increased to -such a pitch that the sailors themselves trembled at the captain’s -foolhardiness. I stood by the Venetian, holding on to a bar and -listening to his maledictions on the captain’s madness, when suddenly a -fresh gust of wind caught the boat and sent her over on her beam-ends, -the captain rolling away into the scuppers. - -In a flash the Venetian was at the tiller, shouting orders to the -sailors, who were by this time calling on the Madonna: - -“Don’t bother about the Madonna now,” he cried, “get in the sails.” - -The sails were reefed, the ship righted, and next day we reached -Leghorn with only one sail, so strong was the wind. - -A few hours after, our sailors came to the hotel in a body to -congratulate us on our escape. And, though the poor devils hardly -earned enough to keep body and soul together, nothing would induce them -to take a farthing. It was only by great persuasion that we got them to -share an impromptu meal. My friends had confided to me that they were -on the way to join the insurrection in Modena; they had great hopes of -raising Tuscany and then marching on Rome. - -But alas for their young hopes! Two were arrested before reaching -Florence and thrown into dungeons, where they may still lie rotting; -the others, I heard later, did well in Modena, but finally shared the -fate of gallant and ill-starred Menotti. - -So ended their sweet dream of liberty. - -I had great trouble in getting from Florence to Rome. Frenchmen were -revolutionists and the Pope did not welcome them warmly. The Florentine -authorities refused to _viser_ my passport, and nothing but the -energetic protests of Monsieur Horace Vernet, the director of the Roman -Academy, prevailed on them to let me go. - -Still alone, I made my way to Rome. My driver knew no French so I was -reduced to reading the memoirs of the Empress Josephine, as we dawdled -on our road. The country was not interesting; the inns were most -uncomfortable; nothing gave me reason to reverse my decision that Italy -was a horrid country and I most unlucky in being compelled to stay in -it. - -But one morning we reached a group of houses called La Storta and, as -he poured out a glass of wine, my _vetturino_ said casually, with a -jerk of his head and thumb: - -“There is Rome, signore.” - -Strange revulsion of feeling! As I gazed down on the far-off city, -standing in purple majesty in the midst of its vast desolate plain, my -heart swelled with awe and reverence, and suddenly I realised all the -grandeur, all the poetry, all the might of that heart of the world. - -I was still lost in dreams of the past when the carriage stopped in -front of the Academy. - -The Villa Medici, the home of the students and director of the -_Académie de France_, was built in 1557 by Annibale Lippi, one wing -being added by Michael Angelo. It stands on the side of the Pincian, -overlooking the city; on one side of it is the Pincian Way, on the -other the magnificent gardens designed in Lenôtre’s style, and -opposite, in the midst of the waste fields of the Villa Borghese, -stands Raphael’s house. - -Such are the royal quarters that France has munificently provided -for her children. Yet the rooms of the pupils are mostly small, -uncomfortable, and very badly furnished. - -The studios of the painters and sculptors are scattered about the -grounds as well as in the palace, and from a little balcony, looking -over the Ursuline gardens, there is a glorious view of the Sabine -range, Monte Cavo and Hannibal’s Camp. - -There is a fair library of standard classics, but no modern books -whatever; studiously-minded people may go and kill time there up to -three in the afternoon, for there is really nothing to do. The sole -obligation of the students is, once a year, to send a sample of their -work to the Academy in Paris; for the rest of the time they do exactly -as they please. - -The director simply has to see that rules are kept and the whole -establishment well managed; with the inmates’ work he has nothing to do -whatever. - -It would be hardly fair that he should; to overlook and advise -twenty-two young men in five different branches of art would hardly be -within one man’s compass. - -The Ave Maria was ringing as I entered the portals of the Villa and, as -that was the dinner-hour, I went straight to the refectory. As soon as -I appeared in the doorway there was a hurrah that raised the roof. - -“Ho! ho! Berlioz! Oh that blessed head! that fiery mop! that dainty -nose! I say, Jalay, his nose knocks spots out of yours; take a -back-seat, my good man!” - -“He can give _you_ points in hair anyway.” - -“Ye gods, _what_ a crop!” - -“Heigh, Berlioz! how about those infernal side-drums that wouldn’t -start the _Fire_! By Jove! he was in a wax. Good reason, too! I say, -have you forgotten me?” - -“I know your face well enough, but your name----” - -“He says ‘you.’ Don’t give yourself airs, old boy, we are all ‘thou’ -here.” - -“Well, what is _thy_ name?” - -“Signol.” - -“No, it isn’t; it’s _Ros_signol.”[9] - -“Lord, what a beastly bad pun!” - -“Do let him sit down.” - -“Whom? The pun?” - -“Get out! Berlioz, of course.” - -“I say, Fleury, bring us some punch--real good stuff. We’ll stop this -idiot’s mouth.” - -“Now our musical section is complete.” - -“Montfort” (the laureate of the year before me), “embrace your comrade.” - -“No, he sha’n’t!” - -“Yes, he shall!” and they all yelled together. - -“Look here; while you others are fighting, he’s eating all the -macaroni. Leave me a bit!” - -“Well, embrace him all round and get it done with.” - -“Oh, bother! Now it’s going to begin all over again.” - -“I say, I’m not going to drink wine when there’s punch.” - -“Not much! Break the bottles. Look out, Fleury!” - -“Gentlemen! Gentlemen! Don’t break the glasses, please! You will want -them for the punch. You would not like to drink punch out of little -glasses.” - -“Perish the thought! You are a man of sense, Fleury. You were only just -in time, though.” - -Fleury was the prop of the house; a thoroughly good fellow, who well -deserved the trust of the Academy directors. Nothing ruffled him; he -was so used to our scenes that he kept the aspect of a graven image, -which made it all the funnier for us. - -When I had got over my tempestuous reception, I looked round the hall. -On one wall were about fifty portraits of former students, on the other -a series of the most outrageous life-sized caricatures, also of inmates -of the Academy. Unluckily, for want of wall-space, these soon came to -an end. - -That evening, after an interview with M. Vernet, I followed my comrades -to the Café Greco--the dirtiest, darkest, dampest hole imaginable. How -it justifies its existence as the artist’s favourite café I cannot -imagine. We smoked abominable cigars and drank coffee that was none the -nicer for being served on dirty little wooden tables, as sticky and -greasy as the walls. - -Next day I made Mendelssohn’s acquaintance; but more of this when I -come to write of Germany.[10] - -For a while I got on fairly well in this new life, then gradually my -anxiety about my Paris letters, which were not forthcoming, increased -to such an extent that, in defiance of the kindly expostulations of M. -Horace Vernet, who tried to restrain me by saying that I must be struck -off the list of _pensionnaires_ if I broke the Academy’s most stringent -rule, I decided to return to Paris. - -I started, but at Florence was kept in bed a week by quinsy, and so -made the acquaintance of Schlick, the Danish sculptor, a thoroughly -good fellow of much talent. During this week I rewrote the Ball Scene -for my _Symphonie Fantastique_, and added the present Coda. - -It was not quite finished when, the first time I was able to go -out, I fetched my letters from the post. Among them was one of such -unparalleled impudence that I fairly took leave of my senses. Needless -to say, it was from Camilla’s mother. In it, after accusing me of -_bringing annoyance_ into her household, she announced the marriage of -my _fiancée_ to M. Pleyel. - -In two minutes my plans were laid. I must hurry to Paris to kill two -guilty women and one innocent man; for, this act of justice done, I, -too, must die! - -They would expect me, therefore I must go disguised. I hurried to -Schlick and showed him the letter. - -“It is scandalous,” he said. “What will you do?” - -I thought it best to deceive him so as to be absolutely free. - -“Do? Why, return to France. But I will go to my father’s, not to Paris.” - -“Right!” he replied. “Your own home will best soothe your wounded -heart. Keep up your spirits.” - -“I will; but I must go at once.” - -“You can easily go this evening. I know the official people here, and -will get your passport and a seat for you in the mail. Go and pack.” - -Instead of packing, I went to a milliner in the Lung ‘Arno. - -“Madame,” I said, “I want a lady’s-maid’s outfit by five -o’clock--dress, hat, green veil, everything. Money is no object. Can -you do it?” - -She agreed, and leaving a deposit, I went back to the hotel. Taking the -score of the Ball Scene, I wrote across it: - -“I have not time to finish, but if the Concert Society will perform the -piece in the absence of the composer, I beg that Habeneck will double -the flute passage at the last entry of the theme, and will write the -following chords for full orchestra. That will be sufficient finale,” -threw it into a valise with a few clothes, loaded my pistols, put -into my pockets two little bottles, one of strychnine, the other of -laudanum; then, conscience-clear with regard to my arsenal, spent the -rest of the time raging up and down the streets of Florence like a mad -dog. - -At five, I went back to the shop to try on my clothes, which were -satisfactory, and with the modiste’s “good wishes for the success of my -little comedy,” I went back to say good-bye to Schlick, who looked upon -me as a lost sheep returning to the fold! - -A farewell glance at Cellini’s _Perseus_, and we were off. - -League after league went by and I sat with clenched teeth. I could -neither eat nor speak. About midnight the driver and I exchanged a few -words about my pistols, he remarking that, if brigands attacked us, we -must on no account attempt to defend ourselves, proceeded to take off -the caps and hide them under the cushions. - -“As you like,” I said, indifferently. “I have no wish to compromise -you.” - -On our arrival at Genoa (I having tasted nothing but the juice of -an orange, to the astonishment of the courier, who could not make -out whether I belonged to this world or the next), I found that, in -changing carriages at Pietra Santa, my finery had been left behind. - -“Confound it all!” I thought; “this looks as if some cursed good angel -stood in the way of my plan.” - -Again I hunted up a dressmaker, and after trying three, succeeded -in getting a new outfit. Meanwhile, the Sardinian people, seeing me -trotting after work-girls like this, took it into their sapient heads -that I must be a conspirator, a _carbonero_, a liberator, and refused -to _viser_ my passport for Turin. I must go by Nice. - -“Then, for heaven’s sake, _viser_ it for Nice. I don’t care. I’ll go -_viâ_ the infernal regions so long as I get through.” - -Which was the greater fool--the policeman, who saw in every Frenchman -an emissary of the Revolution, or myself, who thought I could not set -foot in Paris undisguised; forgetting that, by hiding for a day in a -hotel, I could have found fifty women to rig me out perfectly? - -Self-engrossed people are really delightful. They fancy everyone is -thinking about them, and the deadly earnest with which they act up to -the idea is simply delicious! - -So, behold me on my way to Nice, going over and over my little Parisian -drama. - -Disguised as the Countess de M.’s lady’s-maid, I would go to the house -about nine o’clock with an important letter. While it was being read, I -would pull out my double-barrelled pistols, kill number one and number -two, seize number three by the hair and finish her off likewise; after -which, if this vocal and instrumental concert had gathered an audience, -I would turn the fourth barrel upon myself. Should it miss fire (such -things happen occasionally), I had a final resource in my little -bottles. - -Grand climax! It seems rather a pity it never came off. - -Now, despite my rage, I began to say: - -“Yes, it will be most agreeable, but--to have to kill myself too, -is distinctly annoying. To say farewell to earth, to art; to leave -behind me only the reputation of a churl, who did not understand the -gentle art of living; to leave my symphony unfinished, the scores -unwritten--those glorious scores that float through my brain.... Ah!” - -“But no; they shall, they must all die!” - -Each minute I drew nearer to France. - -That night, on the Cornice road, love of life and love of art whispered -sweet promises of days to come, and I sat listening, vaguely, dreamily, -when the driver stopped to put on the drag. Roused mentally by the -thunder of the waves upon the iron cliffs below, the stupendous majesty -of Nature burst upon me with greater force than ever before, and woke -anew the tempest in my heart--the awful wrestling of Life and Death. - -Holding with both hands on to my seat, I let out a wild “Ha!” so -hoarse, so savage, so diabolic that the startled driver bounced aside -as if he had indeed had a demon for his fellow-traveller. - -In my first lucid moments I remember thinking, “If only I could find -some solid point of rock to cling to before the next wave of fury and -madness sweeps over my head, I might yet be saved!” - -I found one. We stopped to change horses at a little Sardinian -village--Ventimiglia, I believe[11]--and, begging five minutes from the -guard, I hurried into a café, seized a scrap of paper, and wrote to M. -Vernet, praying him to keep me on the roll of students, if I were not -already crossed off, assuring him that I had not yet broken the rule, -and promising not to cross the frontier until I received his answer at -Nice, where I would await it. - -Temporarily safeguarded by my word of honour, yet free to take up my -Red Indian scheme of vengeance again, should I be excluded from the -Academy, I got quietly into the carriage and suddenly discovered that -... I was hungry, having eaten nothing since leaving Florence. - -Oh, good, gross Nature! I was positively reviving! - -I got to Nice, still growling at intervals; but, after a few days came -M. Vernet’s answer--a friendly paternal letter that touched me deeply. - -Though ignorant of the reason of my trouble, the great artist gave me -the best advice, showing me that hard work and love of art were the -sovereign remedies for a mind diseased; telling me that the Minister -knew nothing of my escapade, and that I should be received with open -arms in Rome. - -“They are saved!” I sighed. “Suppose I live too?--live quietly, -happily, musically? Why not? Let’s try!” - -So for a month I dwelt alone at Nice, writing the _King Lear_ overture, -bathing in the sea, wandering through orange groves, and sleeping on -the healthy slopes of the Villefranche hills. - -Thus passed the twenty happiest days of my life. - -Oh, Nizza! - -But the King of Sardinia’s police put an end to this idyllic life. -I had spoken to one or two officers of the garrison, and had even -played billiards with them. This was sufficient to rouse the darkest -suspicions. - -“This musician cannot have come to hear _Mathilde de Sabran_” (the -only opera given just then), “since he never goes near the theatre. -He wanders alone on the hills, no doubt expecting a signal from some -revolutionary vessel; he never dines at _table d’hôte_ in order to -avoid spies; he is ingratiating himself with our officers in order -to start negotiations with them in the name of Young Italy. It is a -flagrant conspiracy!” - -I was summoned to the police office. - -“What are you doing here, sir?” - -“Recruiting after a terrible illness. I compose, I dream, I thank God -for the glorious sun, the sea, the flower-clothed hillsides----” - -“You are not an artist?” - -“No.” - -“Yet you wander about with a book in your hand. Are you making plans?” - -“Yes, the plan of an overture to _King Lear_--at least the -instrumentation is nearly finished, and I believe its reception will be -tremendous.” - -“What do you mean by reception? Who is this King Lear?” - -“Oh, a wretched old English king.” - -“English king?” - -“Yes; according to Shakespeare he lived about eighteen hundred years -ago, and was idiotic enough to divide his kingdom between two wicked -daughters, who kicked him out when he had nothing more to give them. -You see, there are few kings that----” - -“Never mind kings now. What do you mean by instrumentation?” - -“It is a musical term.” - -“Same excuse again! Sir, I know that you cannot possibly compose -wandering about the beach with only a pencil and paper, and no piano, -so tell me where you wish to go, and your passport shall be made out. -You cannot remain here.” - -“Then I will go back to Rome, and, by your leave, continue to compose -without a piano.” - -Next day I left Nice, greatly against the grain, but I was brisk and -light-hearted, well and thoroughly cured. Thus once more loaded pistols -missed fire. - -Never mind. My little drama was interesting, and I cannot help -regretting it--just a little! - - - _To_ H. FERRAND. - - “_11th May 1831._--Well, Ferrand, I am getting on. Rage, threats of - vengeance, grinding of teeth, tortures of hell--all over and done - with! - - “If your silence means laziness on your part, it is too bad of you. - When one comes back to life, as I have done, one feels the need of - a friendly arm, of an outstretched hand. - - “Yes, Camille has married Pleyel, and I am glad of it. I see now - the perils that I have escaped. - - “What meanness! what shabbiness! what apathy! what infinite--almost - sublime--villainy, if sublime can agree with ignobility (I have - stolen that newly coined word from you). - - “_P.S._--I have just finished a new overture--to _King Lear_.” - - - - -XVIII - -ITALIAN MUSIC - - -I did not hurry back to Rome, but spent some time in Genoa, where I -heard Paër’s _Agnese_, and where I could find no trace of bust or -statue or tradition of Columbus. I also tried in vain to hear something -of Paganini, who at that moment was electrifying Paris, while I--with -my usual luck--was kicking my heels in his native town. - -Thence I went back to Florence, which of all Italian cities appeals -to me most. There the spleen that devours me in Rome and Naples takes -flight. With barely a handful of francs--since my little excursion had -made a big hole in my income, knowing no one and being consequently -entirely free--I passed delicious days visiting odd corners, dreaming -of Dante and Michael Angelo, and reading Shakespeare in the shady woods -on the Arno bank. - -Knowing, however, that the Tuscan capital could not compare with Naples -and Milan in opera, I took no thought for music until I heard people -at _table d’hôte_ talking of Bellini’s _Montecchi_, which was soon to -be given. Not only did they praise the music, but also the libretto. -Italians, as a rule, care so little for the words of an opera that I -was surprised, and thought: - -“At last I shall hear an opera worthy of that glorious play. What -a subject it is! Simply made for music. The ball at Capulet’s -house, where young Romeo first sees his dazzling love; the street -fight whereat Tybalt presides--patron of anger and revenge; that -indescribable night scene at Juliet’s balcony; the witty sallies of -Mercutio; the prattle of the nurse; the solemnity of the friar trying -to soothe these conflicting elements; the awful catastrophe and the -reconciliation of the rival families above the bodies of the ill-fated -lovers.” - -I hurried to the Pergola Theatre. - -What a disappointment! No ball, no Mercutio, no babbling nurse, no -balcony scene, no Shakespeare! - -And Romeo sung by a small thin _woman_, Juliet by a tall stout one. -Why--in the name of all things musical--why? - -Do they think that women’s voices sound best together? Then why not do -away with men’s entirely? - -Why should Juliet’s lover be deprived of all virility? Could a woman or -a child have slain Tybalt, having burst the gates of Juliet’s tomb and -stretched County Paris a corpse at his feet? - -Surely Othello and Moses with high women’s voices would not be more -utterly incongruous. - -In justice, I must say that Bellini has got a most beautiful effect in -a really powerful incident. The lovers, dragged apart by angry parents, -tear themselves free and rush into each other’s arms, crying: “We meet -again in heaven.” - -He has used a quick, impassioned _motif_, sung in unison, that -expresses most eloquently the idea of perfect union. - -I was unwontedly moved, and applauded heartily. Thinking that I -had better know the worst that Italian opera could perpetrate, had -better--as it were--drink the cup to the dregs, I went to hear -Paccini’s _Vestal_. Although I knew it had nothing in common with -Spontini’s opera, I little dreamed of the bitterness of the cup I -had to face. Licinius, again, was a woman.... After a few minutes’ -painfully strained attention I cried, with Hamlet, “Wormwood! -wormwood!” and fled, feeling I could swallow no more, and stamping so -hard that my great toe was sore for three days after. - -Poor Italy! - -At least, thought I, it will be better in the churches. This was what I -heard. - -A funeral service for the elder son of Louis Bonaparte and Queen -Hortense was being held. - -What thoughts crowded into my mind as I stood amid the flaming torches -in the crape-hung church! A Bonaparte! _His_ nephew, almost his -grandson, dead at twenty; his mother, with his only brother, an exile -in England. - -I thought of the gay creole child dancing on the deck of the ship -that carried her to France, untitled daughter of Madame Beauharnais, -adopted daughter of the master of Europe, Queen of Holland, exiled, -forgotten, bereft, without a kingdom, without a home! - -Oh, Beethoven! Great soul! Titan, who couldst conceive the _Eroica_ and -the _Funeral March_, is not this a meet subject for thy genius?... - -The organist pulled out the small flute stops and fooled about over -twittering little airs at the top of the key-board, exactly like wrens -preening themselves on a sunny wall in winter! - -Again, hearing great things of the Corpus Christi music in Rome, I -hurried there in company with several Italians bent on the same errand. - -They raved all the way of the wonders we should see, dangling before my -eyes tiaras, mitres, chasubles, etc., etc. - -“But the music?” I asked. - -“Oh, signor, there will be an immense choir,” then they went back to -their crosses and incense, and bell-ringing and cannon. - -“But the music?” I repeated. - -“Oh, there will be a gigantic choir.” - -“Well, anyway,” I thought, “things will be on a magnificent scale,” -and my vivid imagination raced off to the glories of Solomon’s Temple -and the colossal pageants of ancient Egypt. Cruel gift of Nature that -clothes dull life in a golden veil! It simply made more appalling -and impossible the shrill nasal voices of the singers, the quacking -clarinets, the bellowing trombones, and the rampant vulgarity of the -big drums. It was brutal unadulterated cacophony. - -Rome calls this military music! - -Then, behold me once more safe at the Villa Medici, welcomed by the -director and my comrades, who most kindly and tactfully hid their -curiosity concerning my crazy journey. I had gone off having good -reason to go; I had come back--so much the better. No remarks, no -questions. - - - _To_ GOUNET, HILLER, ETC. - - “_6th May 1831._--I have made acquaintance with Mendelssohn; - Monfort knew him before. - - “He is a charming fellow; his execution is as perfect as his - genius, and that is saying a good deal. All I have heard of his is - splendid, and I believe him to be one of the great musicians of his - time. - - “He has been my cicerone. Every morning I hunt him up; he plays me - Beethoven; we sing _Armida_; then he takes me to see ruins that, - I must candidly own, do not impress me much. His is one of those - clear pure souls one does not often come across; he believes firmly - in his Lutheran creed, and I am afraid I shocked him terribly by - laughing at the Bible. - - “I have to thank him for the only pleasant moments I had during the - anxious days of my first stay in Rome. - - “You may imagine what I felt like when I received that astonishing - letter from Madame Moke announcing her daughter’s marriage. She - calmly said that she never agreed to our engagement, and begs me, - dear kind creature! not to kill myself. - - “Hiller knows the whole story, and how I left Paris with her ring - upon my finger, given in exchange for mine. However, I am quite - recovered and can eat as usual. I am saved, they are saved! I threw - myself into the arms of music, and felt how blessed it is to have - friends. - - “I am working hard at _King Lear_. - - “Write to me, each of you, a particular and separate and individual - letter.” - - - _To_ F. HILLER. - - “Has Mendelssohn arrived yet? His talent is wonderful, - extraordinary, sublime. You need not suspect me of partiality - in saying this, for he frankly owns that he cannot in the least - understand my - -[Illustration: THE VILLA MEDICI, ROME] - - music. Greet him for me; he does not think so, but I truly like him - thoroughly.” - - - - -XIX - -IN THE MOUNTAINS - - -I quickly fell into the Academy routine. A bell called us to meals, -and we went as we were--with straw hats, blouses plastered with clay, -slippered feet, no ties--in fact, in studio undress. - -After breakfast we lounged about the garden at quoits, tennis, target -practice, shooting the misguided blackbirds who came within range, or -trained our puppies; in all of which amusements M. Horace often joined -us. - -In the evening, at that everlasting Café Greco, we smoked the pipe of -peace with the “men down below,” as we dubbed artists not attached to -the Academy. After which we dispersed; those who virtuously returned -to the Academy barracks gathering in the garden portico, where my -bad guitar and worse voice were in great request, and where we sang -_Freyschütz_, _Oberon_, _Iphigenia_ or _Don Giovanni_, for, to the -credit of my messmates be it spoken, their musical taste was far from -low. - -On the other hand, we sometimes had what we called English concerts. We -each chose a different song and sang it in a different key, beginning -by signal one after another; as this concert in twenty-four keys went -on crescendo, the frightened dogs in the Pincio kept up a howling -obligato and the barbers on the Piazza di Spagna down below winked at -each other, saying slyly, “French music!” - -On Thursdays we went to Madame Vernet’s receptions, where we met the -best society in Rome; and on Sundays we usually went long excursions -into the country. With the director’s permission, longer journeys -might be undertaken and usually several of our number were absent. - -As for me, since Rome never appealed to me, I took refuge in the -mountains; had I not done so, I doubt whether I could have lived -through that time. It may seem strange that the mighty shade of old -Rome should not impress me, but I had come from Paris, the centre of -civilisation, and was at one blow severed from music, from theatres -(they were only open for four months), from literature, since the -Papal censor excluded almost everything that I cared to read, from -excitements, from everything that, to me, meant real life. - -Balls, evening parties, shooting days in the Campagna, and rides made -up the inane mill-round in which I turned. Add to that the scirocco, -the incessant yearning for my beloved art, my sorrowful memories, the -misery of being for two years exiled from the musical world, and the -utter impossibility of composing in that stagnating atmosphere, and it -will hardly be wondered at that I was as savage as a trained bull-dog, -and that the well-meant efforts of my friends to divert me only drove -me to the verge of madness. - -I remember in one of my Campagna rides with Mendelssohn expressing -my surprise that no one had ever written a scherzo on Shakespeare’s -sparkling little poem _Queen Mab_. He, too, was surprised, and I was -very sorry I had put the idea into his head. For years I lived in dread -that he had used it, for he would have made it impossible--or, at any -rate, very risky--for anyone to attempt it after him. Luckily he forgot. - -My usual remedy for spleen was a trip to Subiaco, which seemed to put -new life into me. - -An old grey suit, a straw hat, a guitar, a gun and six piastres were -all my stock-in-trade. Thus I wandered, shooting or singing, careless -where I might pass the night; sometimes hurrying, again stopping to -investigate some ancient tomb, to listen silently to the distant bells -of St Peter’s, far away in the plain; interrupting my hunt for a flock -of lapwing to jot down a note for a symphony, and, in short, enjoying -to the full my absolute freedom. - -Sometimes--a glorious landscape spread before me--I chanted, to the -guitar accompaniment, long-remembered verses of the Æneid, the death of -Pallas, the despair of Evander, the sad end of Amata, and the death of -Lavinia’s noble lover, and worked myself up to an incredible pitch of -excitement that ended in floods of tears. Elicited originally by the -woes of these mythical beings, my overwhelming grief ended by becoming -personal, and my tears flowed in self-pity for my sorrows, my doubtful -future, my broken career. - -The odd thing was that, all the time, I was quite able to analyse -my feelings, although I ended by collapsing under these chaotic -miseries, murmuring a mixture of Virgil, Dante and Shakespeare--“Nessun -maggior dolore--che ricordarsi--O poor Ophelia!--good-night, sweet -ladies--vitaque cum gemitu--sub umbras--” and so fell fast asleep. - -How crazy, you say? Yes, but how happy. Sensible people cannot -understand this intensity of being, this actual joy in existing, in -dragging from life the uttermost it has to give in height and depth. -Here, in the Parisian whirlpool, how well I recall the wild Abruzzi -country where I spent so long. - -Bitter-sweet memories of days now passed for ever. Days of utter -irresponsible freedom to abolish time, to scorn ambition, to forget -love and glory. - -Oh strong, grand Italy! Wild Italy! Heedless of that sister Italy--the -Italy of Art! - -In time I became friendly with many of the villagers; one in -particular, named Crispino, grew very fond of me; he not only got me -perfumed pipe-stems (I had not then found out that I disliked the -sort of excitement produced by tobacco) but balls, powder and even -percussion caps. I first won his affection by helping to serenade -his mistress and by singing a duet with him to that untameable young -person; then fixed them by a present of two shirts and a pair of -trousers. Crispino could not write, so when he had anything to tell me -he came to Rome. What were thirty leagues to him? - -At the Academy we usually left our doors open; one January -morning--having left the mountains in October I had had three months’ -boredom--on turning over in bed, I found, standing over me, a great -sun-burnt scamp with pointed hat and twisted leggings, waiting quite -quietly till I woke. - -“Hallo, Crispino! What brings you here?” - -“Oh, I have just come to--see you.” - -“Yes; what next?” - -“Well--just now----” - -“Just now?” - -“To tell the truth--I’ve got no money.” - -“Now come! That’s something like the truth. You have no money; what -business is that of mine, oh mightiest of scamps?” - -“I’m no scamp. If you call me a scamp because I have no money, you are -right, but if it is because I was two years at Civita Vecchia, you are -wrong. I wasn’t sent to the galleys for stealing, but just for good -honest shots at strangers in the mountains.” - -It was all nonsense, of course, I don’t believe he ever shot so much -as a monk. However, he was hurt in his feelings and would only accept -three piastres, a shirt and a neckerchief. - -The poor fellow was killed two years ago in a brawl. Shall I meet him -in a better world? - - * * * * * - -In the miserable oblivion and dishonour into which music has sunk in -Rome I found but one small sign of honest life. It was among the -pfifferari, players of a little popular instrument, a surviving relic -of antiquity. They were strolling musicians who, at Christmastide, came -down from the mountains in groups of four or five armed with bagpipes -and _pfifferi_, a kind of oboe, to play before the images of the Virgin. - -I used to spend hours in watching them, there was something so quaintly -mysterious in their wild aspect as they stood--head slightly turned -over one shoulder, their bright dark eyes fixed devoutly on the holy -figure, almost as still as the image itself. - -At a distance the effect is indescribable and few escape its spell. -When I heard it in its native haunts, among the volcanic rocks and dark -pine forests of the Abruzzi, I could almost believe myself transported -back through the ages to the days of Evander, the Arcadian. - -Of this time, musically, I have little to tell. I wrote a long and -incoherent overture to _Rob Roy_, which I burnt immediately after -its performance in Paris; the _Scène aux Champs_ of the _Symphonie -Fantastique_, which I rewrote entirely in the Borghese gardens; the -_Chant de Bonheur_ for _Lelio_, and lastly a little song called _La -Captive_, inspired by Victor Hugo’s lovely poem. - -One day I was at Subiaco with Lefebvre, the architect. As he drew, he -knocked over a book with his elbow; it was _Les Orientales_. I picked -it up and it opened at that particular page. Turning to Lefebvre I said: - -“If I had any paper I would write music to this exquisite poem; I can -_hear it_.” - -“That is soon done,” said he, and he ruled a sheet whereon I wrote my -song. A fortnight later I remembered it and shewed it to Mademoiselle -Vernet, saying: - -“I wish you would try this, for I have quite forgotten what it is -like.” - -I scribbled a piano accompaniment, and it took so well that, by the end -of the month, M. Vernet, driven nearly mad by its reiteration, said: - -“Look here, Berlioz. Next time you go up to the mountains don’t evolve -any more songs; your _Captive_ is making life in the Villa impossible. -I can’t go a yard without hearing it sung or snored or growled. It is -simply distracting! I am going to discharge one of the servants to-day, -and I shall only engage another on condition that he does not sing the -_Captive_.” - -The only other thing I did was the _Resurrexit_ that I sent as my -obligatory work to Paris. The Powers said that I had made _great -progress_. As it was simply a piece of the mass performed at St Roch -several years before I got the prize, it does not say much for the -judgment of the Immortals! - - - _To_ HUMBERT FERRAND. - - “_January 1832._--Why did you not tell me of your marriage? Of - course, I believe, since you say so, that you did not get my - letters, but--even so--how could you keep silence? - - “Your _Noce des Fées_ is exquisite; so fresh, so full of dainty - grace, but I cannot make music to it yet. Orchestration is not - sufficiently advanced; I must first educate and dematerialise it, - then perhaps I may think of treading in Weber’s footsteps. But - here is my idea for an oratorio--the mere carcase, that you must - vitalise: - - “‘The World’s Last Day.’ - - “The height of civilisation, the depth of corruption, under a - mighty tyrant, throughout the earth. - - “A faithful handful of God’s people, left alive by the tyrant’s - contempt, under a prophet, Balthasar, who confronts the ruler - and announces the end of the world. The tyrant, in amused scorn, - forces him to be present at a travesty of the Last Day, but during - its performance, the earth quakes, angels sound gigantic trumpets, - the True Christ appears, the Judgment has come. - - * * * * * - - “That is all. Tell me if the subject appeals to you. Do not attempt - detail, it is lost in the Opera House. And, if possible, do not be - tied down by the absurd bond of rhyme--use it or not, as seem best. - - “I want to leave here in May; if possible, I will get the whole of - my pension; if I cannot I must just go on a tour here. I have just - finished an important article on the state of music in Italy for - the _Revue Européenne_. - - * * * * * - - “_March._--Many thanks for your confession of colossal idleness. - Will you never be cured? - - “You have read me a fine homily, but you are entirely out in your - conjecture. - - “I shall never admire ugliness in art. What I said about rhyme was - only to make things easier for you. I could not bear you to waste - time and talent over unnecessary difficulties. You know as well as - I do that, in hundreds of cases, in verses set to music the rhymes - disappear entirely--then why bother about them? - - “As for the literary side of the question, I am quite sure it is - only custom and education that make you dislike blank verse. - - “Just think! Three quarters of Shakespeare is so written, so - is Klopstock’s _Messiah_. Byron used it, and lately I read a - translation of _Julius Cæsar_ that ran perfectly, although you had - prepared me to be utterly shocked. - - “So my subject appeals to you? It is new, grand and fertile, so - imagine into it all that you like. As far as the music is concerned - I am exploring a virgin Brazilian forest and great are the - treasures I hope to find.” - - - - -XX - -NAPLES--HOME - - -Again did that wretched malady--call it moral, nervous, imaginary, what -you will, _I_ call it spleen--which is really the fever of loneliness, -seize upon me. - -I had first felt it at La Côte Saint-André, when I was sixteen. One -lovely May morning I was sitting in a meadow, under the shade of a -spreading oak, reading Montjoie’s _Manuscript found at Posilippo_. -Engrossed in my story, I only gradually became aware of sweet -and plaintive songs trembling in the breeze. It was the Rogation -procession; in the old time-honoured way, that has always seemed to me -most poetical and touching, the peasants were going round the fields, -praying for the blessing of heaven on their crops. I watched them kneel -before a green-wreathed wooden cross, while the priest blessed the -land, then they passed on, and the sweet voices died in the distance. - -Silence--the gentle rustling of the flowering wheat, the faint cry -of the quail to his mate, a dead leaf floating from an oak, the deep -throbbing of my own heart. Life seemed so very far away! - -On the horizon the Alpine glaciers shone in the rising sun. Here was -Meylan; far over those mountains lay Italy, Naples, Posilippo--the -whole world of my story. Oh! for the wings of a dove, to leave this -clogging earth-bound body! Oh! for life at its highest and best; for -love, for rapture, for ecstasy; for the clinging clasp of hot embraces! -Love! glory! where is my bright particular star, O my heart? my Stella -Montis? Gone for ever? - -Then came the crisis with crushing force. I suffered horribly, rolling -on the earth, spreading wide my empty arms, tearing up handfuls of -grass and daisies--that opened wide their innocent eyes--as I fought my -awful sense of oppression and desolation and bereavement. - -Yet what was all this compared to the agony I have suffered since, to -the torment of my soul that increases daily? - -I never thought of death; suicide had no place in my mind. I -wanted life, life in its fullest capacity of love and joy and -happiness--furious and all-devouring--life that would use to the -uttermost my superabundant energies. - -That is not spleen. Spleen follows upon it; it is the mental, moral and -physical exhaustion that is the inevitable sequence to such a crisis. - - * * * * * - -One day as I slept, worn out by this reaction, in the laurel wood of -the Villa, rolled up like a hedgehog in a heap of dry leaves, two of my -comrades woke me. - -“Now then, Silenus, get up and come to Naples. We’re off.” - -“Off to the devil! You know I have no money.” - -“Idiot! Can’t we lend you some? Come, Dantan, help me to heave him up -or we shall get no sense out of him. There you are! Brush him down a -bit. Now be off and get a month’s leave from Monsieur Horace.” - -And I went. - -What shall I say of Naples? Clear bright sky, fecund earth, dazzling -sunlight! - -So many have described this lovely land that I need not do it again. I -wandered in the grounds of the Villa Reale, pondering on the woes of -Tasso, and rowed to Nisita to watch the sun go down behind Capo Miseno -to the accompaniment of the thousand minor chords of the rippling sea. -As I stood, a soldier, who spoke very fair French, came up and offered -to show me the curiosities of the island. I accepted gratefully, and -after an hour’s stroll together I took out my purse. Drawing back, he -put my hand aside, saying: - -“Monsieur, I want nothing. I ask nothing but--but--that you will pray -God for me.” - -“Indeed I will,” I said; “it’s an odd notion, but I will do it.” - -And that night I seriously did say a Paternoster for him after I got to -bed. I was beginning a second when I went into fits of laughter. So I -am afraid that, as far as my intervention is concerned, the poor man is -still a plain sergeant. - -Next day the wind had freshened, and our passage back was stormy. -However, we landed at last, and my sailors, overjoyed at the thirty -francs I had promised them, insisted on my dining with them. They -were such ruffianly-looking creatures that, when they led me through -a lonely poplar wood, I began to doubt them, poor lazzaroni! However, -we soon came to a cottage where my amphitryons gave orders for the -feast--a mountain of macaroni, into which I plunged my hand with them; -a great pot of Posilippo wine, from which we drank in turn--I after -a toothless old man, the eldest of the family, for, with these good -fellows, respect for age comes before even courtesy to guests. - -Then the old man began discussing politics, and talking of King -Joachim, who was very near his heart, until he got so deeply affected -that, to turn his thoughts, his children made him tell me of a long -and dangerous voyage he had once made when, after _three days and -two nights_ at sea, he had been thrown on a far-off island which the -aborigines called Elba, and where it was rumoured Napoleon had once -been kept prisoner. Of course I sympathised, and congratulated the old -man on his wonderful escape. - -The young men were greatly delighted at my interest and attention; they -whispered together, there was a mysterious hurrying to and fro, and I -gathered that some surprise was in store. - -As I rose to leave, the tallest of the lazzaroni, with shy politeness, -begged me to accept a present, the best they had to offer, calculated -to make the most callous of men weep. - -It was a gigantic--onion! which I received with modest dignity worthy -of the occasion, and which I carried off in triumph, after a thousand -vows of eternal friendship. - -That night I went to San Carlo, and, for the first time, heard music -in Italy. It was at least meritorious, though the noise made by the -conductor tapping his desk bothered me greatly. I was assured, however, -that without this support, the musicians _could not possibly keep in -time_! - -The musical attractions of Naples could not rival those of the -surrounding country, so I passed most of my time in exploring until one -day, breakfasting at Castellamare with Munier, the marine painter, whom -we had christened Neptune, he said: - -“What shall we do? I am sick of Naples. Don’t let us go back.” - -“Shall we go to Sicily?” - -“By all means. Give me time to finish a study I have begun, and I can -catch the five o’clock boat.” - -“All right. Let’s see how much money we have.” - -Upon investigation there turned out to be enough to take us to Palermo, -but for coming back we should have had to trust to Providence, as the -monks say. So we separated, he to paint the sea, I to walk back to Rome -over the mountains, in company with two Swedish officers whom I knew. - -Thus by way of Isola di Sora, Alatri, Subiaco, and Tivoli, and with -but few adventures we got back to the Eternal City, and my life of -stagnation began once more. - -I dreamed of Paris, finished my monodrama, and revised the _Symphonie -Fantastique_, then, considering that the time had come to have them -performed, I obtained M. Vernet’s permission to go back to France -before my two years expired. I sat for my portrait, took a last trip -to Tivoli, Albano, and Palestrina; sold my gun, broke my guitar, wrote -in several albums, gave a punch-party to my fellow-students, spent a -lot of time stroking M. Vernet’s two dogs--faithful companions of my -shooting excursions--had an attack of profound sorrow at the thought -that I might see this poetic land no more; climbed into a wretched old -chaise, and then--good-bye to Rome! - -I went by Florence, Milan, and Turin, and at last, on the 12th May -1832, coming down the slopes of Mont Cenis, I beheld at my feet that -smiling Grésivaudan valley, where my happiest hours and brightest -dreams of childhood had passed. There was St Eynard, there the house -where shone my Stella Montis; there, through the shimmering blue haze, -my grandfather’s place bade me welcome. Surely Italy had naught to show -as lovely as this! Yet what is this strange oppression on my heart? -Afar I hear the dull and ominous murmur of Paris commanding my presence. - - - _To_ FERDINAND HILLER. - - “FLORENCE, _May 1832_.--I arrived yesterday, and found - your letter. Why do you not say whether the sale of my medal - realised enough to pay the two hundred francs I owe you? - - “I left Rome without regret. The Academy life had grown - intolerable, and I spent all my evenings with the Director’s - family, who have been most kind. Mademoiselle Vernet is prettier, - and her father younger than ever. - - “I am glad to be here, yet my sensations are so curiously confused - that I cannot explain them even to myself. I know no one, have no - adventures, am utterly alone. Perhaps that is what affects me so - oddly. I seem to be not myself but some stranger--some Russian or - Englishman--sauntering along the Lung ‘Arno. Berlioz is merely a - distant acquaintance. - - “This cursed throat of mine is still troublesome; it would be the - death of me if I would allow it. - - “I shall not be in Paris till November or December, as I go - straight home from here. Many thanks for your invitation to - Frankfort; sooner or later I mean to accept it.” - - - _To_ MADAME HORACE VERNET. - - “LA CÔTE ST ANDRÉ, _July 1832_.--You have set me, Madame, - a new and most agreeable task. - - “An intellectual woman not only desires that I should write her my - musings, but undertakes to read them without emphasizing too much - their ridiculous side. - - “It is hardly generous of me to take advantage of your kindness, - but are we not all selfish? - - “For my part, I must own that whenever such a temptation comes I - shall fall into it with the utmost alacrity. - - “I should have done so sooner had I not, on my descent from the - Alps, been caught like a ball on the bound and tossed from villa to - villa round Grenoble. - - “My fear was that, on returning to France, I might have to parody - Voltaire and say: ‘The more I see of other lands, _the less_ I love - my country.’ But all the glories of the glorious kingdom of Naples - are powerless beside the ineffable charms of my beautiful vale of - the Isère. - - “Of society, however, I cannot say the same. The advantage is - entirely with the absent, who are not ‘always wrong’ in spite of - the proverb. - - “Despite my herculean efforts to turn the conversation, the good - folks here _will_ insist on talking art, music and poetry to me, - and you may imagine how provincials talk! They have most weird - notions, theories and ideas that make an artist’s blood curdle in - his veins, and, withal, the calmest assumption of infallibility. - - “One would think to hear them talk of Byron, Goethe, Beethoven, - that they were respectable bootmakers or tailors, with a little - more talent than their compeers. - - “Nothing is good enough, there is no reverence, no respect, no - enthusiasm! - - “Thus living in a crowd, I am utterly, cruelly alone and am parched - for want of music. - - “No longer can I look forward to my evening’s pleasure with - Mademoiselle Louise and her piano; no more can I try her sweet - patience by demanding and re-demanding those sublime adagios. - - “You smile, Madame? No doubt you murmur that I know neither what I - want nor where I would be--that I am, in fact, half demented. - - “My father devised a charming cure for my malady; he said I ought - to marry and forthwith unearthed a rich damsel, informing me that, - since he could leave me but little, it was my duty to marry money. - - “At first I laughed, but finding that he was in sober earnest, I - was obliged to say firmly that, since I could not love the lady in - question, I would not sell myself at any price. - - “That ended the discussion, but it upset me terribly, for I thought - my father knew me better. - - “Madame, do you not think I am right? - - “As I promised Monsieur Horace, I will go to Paris at the end of - the year to fire my musical broadside, after which I intend to - start at once for Berlin. - - “But indeed, Madame, I am taking unmerciful advantage of your - kindness and will conclude by asking your pardon for my garrulity. - - - _To_ FERDINAND HILLER. - - “LA CÔTE ST ANDRÉ, _August 1832_.--What a dainty, elusive, - piquant, teasing, witty creature is this Hiller! Were we both - women, I should detest her; were she, alone, a woman I should - simply hate her, for I loathe coquettes. As it is--‘Providence - having ordered all for the best’ as the good say--we are luckily - both masculine. - - “No, my dear fellow, you, being you, naturally ‘could not do - otherwise’ than make me wait two months for your letter; naturally, - also, I ‘could not do otherwise’ than be angry with you therefor. - However, as I was not wounded to the quick by your neglect, I wrote - you a second letter which I burnt, remembering Napoleon’s wise - saying, ‘Certain things should never be said.’ If so, still less - should they be written. - - “Come now! Since you are learning Latin I will turn schoolmaster. - - “There are mistakes in your letter. - - “No. 1. No accent on _negre_. - - “No. 2. DE _grands amusements_, not _des_. - - “No. 3. _Il est possible que Mendelssohn_ L’AIT, not - _l’aura_. - - “Take thou good heed unto my lesson. Ouf! - - “I am in the bosom of my family, by whom (particularly by my - younger sister) I allow myself to be adored in an edifying manner. - But oh! I long for liberty and love and money! They will come some - day and perhaps also one little luxury--one of those superfluities - that are necessities to certain temperaments--_revenge_, public and - private. One only lives and dies once. - - “I spend my time in copying my _Mélologue_; I have been two - months at it hard and have still sixty-two days’ work. Am I not - persevering? I am ill for want of music, positively paralysed; then - I still suffer from that choleraic trouble that sometimes keeps me - in bed. However, I am up to-day, getting ready for the next attack. - - “I am going to see Ferrand; we have not met for five years. You see - extremes meet. He is more religious than ever and has married a - woman who adores him and whom he adores. - - - - -XXI - -MARRIAGE - - -After spending the summer in Dauphiny, copying my monodrama, I went -on to Paris, hoping to give two concerts before starting on my German -wanderings. - -Apropos of the _Chorus of Shades_ in this same composition, a rather -comical thing happened in Rome. In order to have it printed it was -necessary for it to pass the Papal censor. Now for this language of -the dead, incomprehensible to the living, I had written pure gibberish -(I have since substituted French, saving my unknown tongue for the -_Damnation de Faust_) of which the censor demanded a translation. - -They tried a German, who could make nothing of it; an Englishman, the -same; Danes, Swedes, Russians, Spaniards--equally useless. Deadlock -at the censorial office! At last, after much cogitation one of the -officials evolved an argument that appealed forcibly and convincingly -to his colleagues: “Since none of these people understand the language, -perhaps the Romans will not understand it either. In that case I think -we might authorise the printing, without danger to religion or morals.” - -So the _Shades_ got printed. Oh reckless censors! Suppose it had been -Sanscrit! - - * * * * * - -One of my first visits in Paris was to Cherubini, whom I found much -aged and enfeebled. He received me with such affection that I was quite -disarmed and said: - -“I fear me the poor man is nigh unto death!” - -It was not long before I found my forebodings quite uncalled for; as -far as I was concerned he was as lively as ever. - -As my old rooms in the Rue Richelieu were let, some influence compelled -me to cross the road to the house in which Miss Smithson had lived, -Rue Neuve St Marc, where I found a lodging. Next day, meeting the old -servant, I said: - -“Do you know what has become of Miss Smithson?” - -“Why, monsieur, she is in Paris; she only left the rooms you are in -a few days ago to go to the Rue de Rivoli. She is manageress of an -English theatre that is to open in a few days.” - -Dumfoundered, I felt that this was indeed the hand of fate. For more -than two years I had heard no word of “fair Ophelia” and here I arrive -in Paris at the very moment she returns from her tour in Northern -Europe. - -A mystic might well find arguments in defence of his cult in this -strange coincidence. What I said was this: - -“I have come to Paris to perform my monodrama. If I go to the theatre -before the concert, I shall certainly have another attack of that -_delirium tremens_; all volition will be taken from me; I shall be -incapable of the thought and care essential to the success of my work. -So first my concert, then I will see her if I die for it and will fight -no more against this strange destiny.” - -And, despite the Shakespearian names staring at me daily from all the -walls in Paris, I kept sternly to my purpose. - -The programme was to consist of the _Symphonie Fantastique_ followed by -_Lelio_, the monodrama which is the complement of the former and is the -second part of my _Episode in an Artist’s Life_. - -Now trace the extraordinary sequence. - -Two days before the concert--which I felt would be my farewell to life -and art--I was in Schlesinger’s music-shop, when an Englishman came in -and went out almost at once. - -“Who is that?” I asked, in idle curiosity. - -“Schutter, of _Galignani’s Messenger_. Ah!” cried Schlesinger, “give -me a box for your concert. He knows Miss Smithson, I will get him to -persuade her to go.” - -I trembled, but dared not refuse; so, running after M. Schutter, he -explained matters and got his promise to do his best to induce Miss -Smithson to go. - -Now while I had been busy over my preparations the unfortunate actress -had been also busy--in ruining herself. - -She did not realise that Shakespeare was no longer new to the -changeable, frivolous Parisian public and innocently counted on a -reception such as she had had three years before. - -The Romantic School was now on the rising tide and its apostles were -not anxious that it should be stemmed by the colossus of dramatic -poetry nor that their wholesale filchings from his works should be -brought to light. - -Hence, sparse audiences, mean receipts and considerable running -expenses that swallowed up all the poor manageress’s savings. - -Schutter, long afterwards, told me that he found Miss Smithson too -dejected to accept his invitation; her sister, however, persuaded her -that the change would be good and she at length allowed him to take -her down to the carriage. On the way to the Conservatoire her eyes -fell on the programme; even then, as she read my name (which they had -taken care not to mention) she little knew that she was, herself, the -heroine of my work. But, in her box, she could not help seeing that she -was the subject of conversation in the hall and when Habeneck came on -to conduct with me--gasping with excitement--behind him, she said to -herself: - -“It is indeed he--poor young man! But he will have forgotten me--at -least--I hope so.” - -The symphony made a tremendous sensation; that was the day of great -enthusiasms and the hall of the Conservatoire (from which I am now shut -out) echoed with the applause of that crowd of musicians. The success, -the fiery _motifs_ of my work, its cries of love and passion and the -mere vibration of such a gigantic orchestra at close quarters, all -worked upon Miss Smithson’s sensitive organisation, and in her heart of -hearts she cried: - -“Ah! If he but loved me now!----” - -During the interval Schutter and Schlesinger made thinly-veiled -allusions to my sorrows and when, in the _Monodrama_, Lelio said: - -“Shall I never meet this Juliet, this Ophelia, for whom my heart -wearies?” - -“Juliet! Ophelia!” she thought, “he must be thinking still of me! He -loves me yet!” - -From that moment she heard no more; in a dream she sat till the end; in -a dream she returned home. That was the 9th December 1832. But while -the web of one part of my life was being woven on one side of the hall, -on the other side another was in the weaving--compounded of the hatred -and wounded vanity of Fétis. - -Before going to Italy I used to earn money by correcting musical -proofs. Troupenas, having given me some Beethoven scores to do that -had previously been revised by Fétis, I found them full of the most -impertinent and unmeaning corrections. I was so furious that I went off -to Troupenas and said: - -“M. Fétis’ corrections are criminal. They are entirely opposed to -Beethoven’s intention, and if this edition is published, I warn you -that I shall denounce it to every musician I meet.” - -Which I accordingly did and there was such an outcry that Troupenas -was obliged to suppress the corrections and Fétis thought it politic -to tell a lie and announce in the _Revue Musicale_ that there was no -truth in the rumour that he had corrected Beethoven’s symphonies. In -_Lelio_ I gibbeted him still farther by putting into my hero’s mouth -quotations of his own that the audience recognised and applauded, with -much laughter. Fétis, sitting in the front row of the gallery, got the -blow full in the face, and needless to say, was thereafter more my -inveterate enemy than ever. - -But I forgot all this next day when I went to call upon Miss Smithson -and began that long course of torturing hopes and fears that lasted -nearly a year. - -Her mother and sister and my parents were all opposed to our marriage, -and while various distressing scenes were in progress, the English -theatre closed in debt. - -To add to her misfortunes, getting out of her carriage, she missed her -footing, and falling, broke her leg just above the ankle. The injury -was most severe and it was feared that she would be lame for life. - -Her accident elicited the greatest sympathy in Paris. Mademoiselle -Mars, particularly, came forward, placing her purse, influence, -everything she had at poor Ophelia’s disposal. I managed to organise a -benefit, in which Chopin and Liszt took part, which brought in enough -to pay the most pressing debts. - -At last, in the summer of 1833, Henriette being still weak and quite -ruined, I married her in the face of the opposition of our two -families. All our resources on the wedding day were three hundred -francs lent me by Gounet. But what did it matter, since she was mine? - - - _To_ H. FERRAND. - - “PARIS, _12th June 1833_.--It is really too bad of me - to cause you anxiety on my account. But you know how my life - fluctuates. One day calm, dreamy, rhythmical; the next bored, - nerve-torn, snappy and snarly as a mangey dog, vicious as a - thousand devils, sick of life and ready to end it, were it not for - the frenzied happiness that draws ever nearer, for the odd destiny - that I feel is mine; for my staunch friends; for music, and lastly, - for _curiosity_. My life is a story that interests me greatly. - - “You ask how I pass my days? If I am well I read or sleep on the - sofa (for I am in comfortable lodgings) or scribble a few well-paid - pages for the _Europe Littéraire_. About six I go to see Henriette - who, to my sorrow, is still ailing. I must tell you all about her - some day. Your opinion of her is quite wrong; her life, also, is - a strange book, of which her points of view, her thoughts, her - feelings, are by no means the least interesting part. - - “I am still meditating the opera I asked you to write in my letter - from Rome eighteen months ago. As, in all this time, you have not - sufficiently conquered your laziness to write it, don’t be angry - that I have given it to Deschamps and Saint-Félix. I really _have_ - been patient!” - - “_August 1833._--You true friend, not to despair of my future! - These cowards cannot realise that, all the time, I am learning, - observing, gathering ideas and knowledge. Bending before the storm, - I still grow; the wind does but blow off a few leaves; the green - fruit upon my branches holds too firmly to be shaken off. Your - trust helps and encourages me. - - “Have I told you of my parting with Henriette--of our scenes, - despair, reproaches, which ended in my taking poison? Her - protestations of love and sorrow brought back my desire to live; - I took an emetic, was ill three days and am still alive! In her - self-abasement she offered to do anything I chose, but now she - begins to hesitate again. I will wait no more and have written - that, unless she goes with me to the Town Hall on Saturday to be - married, I leave for Berlin at once. She shall see that I, who for - so long have languished at her feet, can rise, can leave her, can - live for those who love and understand me. - - “To help me to bear this horrible parting a strange chance has - thrown in my way a charming girl of eighteen, who has fled from a - brute who bought her--a mere child--and has kept her shut up like - a slave for four years. Rather than go back to him, she says she - will drown herself and my idea is to take her to Berlin, and by - Spontini’s influence, place her in some chorus. I will try and make - her love me, and if I succeed, I will fan into life the smouldering - embers in my own heart and persuade myself that I love her. My - passport is ready; I must make an end of things here. Henriette - will be miserable but I have nothing to reproach myself with. - - “I would give my life this minute for a month of _perfect love_ - with her. - - “She must abide the consequences of her unstable character; she - will weep and despair at first, then will dry her tears and end by - believing me in the wrong.” - - * * * * * - - “_11th October 1833._--I am married! All opposition has been in - vain. Henriette has told me of the hundred and one lies they spread - abroad. I was epileptic, I was mad--nothing was too bad. But we - have listened to our own hearts and all is well. - - “This winter we are going to Berlin, but before leaving I must give - a horrid concert. - - “How _awfully_ I love my poor Ophelia! When once we can get rid of - her troublesome sister, life will be hard but quite happy. - - “We are at Vincennes, where my wife can spend her days in the Park, - but I go to Paris every day. Our marriage has made the devil’s own - row there. - - “My little fugitive is provided for. Jules Janin has arranged to - send her away. - - “Write soon. I love to answer, in order to tell you of the heaven - I live in--it needs but you! Surely love and friendship like yours - and mine is one of the supreme joys of this world!” - - - - -XXII - -NEWSPAPER BONDAGE - - -At the time of our marriage our sole income was my scholarship, which -still had a year and a half to run; but the Minister of the Interior -absolved me from the regulation German tour. I had a fair number of -friends and adherents in Paris and firm faith in the future. - -To pay my wife’s debts, I had to start _benefit-mongering_. My friends -rallied round me--amongst them Alexandre Dumas, who was all his life -my most devoted helper--and after untold annoyances we arranged a -theatrical performance, followed by a concert at the Théâtre Italien. - -The programme was Dumas’ _Antony_, played by Firmin and Madame -Dorval, followed by the fourth act of _Hamlet_, by my wife and -some English amateurs; then a concert consisting of my _Symphonie -Fantastique_, _Francs-Juges_, _Sardanapalus_, a chorus of Weber and his -_Concert-Stück_, played by Liszt. - -If the concert had ever come off entirely it would have lasted till one -in the morning. But it did not, and for the sake of young musicians I -must tell what happened. - -Not being versed in the manners and customs of theatrical musicians, -I arranged with the manager to take his theatre and orchestra, adding -to the latter some players from the Opera, an impossibly dangerous -combination, since the theatre _employés_ were bound by contract to -take part gratuitously in concerts in their own house, and, therefore, -naturally look upon them as a burden. By engaging paid artists, I -simply added to their grievance, and they determined to be revenged. - -Then, my wife and I being equally ignorant of the petty intrigues of -the theatrical world we took no precautions to insure her success. We -never even sent a ticket to the _claque_, and Madame Dorval, believing -Henriette’s triumph secured, of course took measures to arrange for -her own. Besides, she played splendidly, so it was no wonder she was -applauded and recalled. - -The fourth act of _Hamlet_, separated from its context, was -incomprehensible to French people and fell absolutely flat. They even -noticed (although her talent and grace were as great as ever) how -difficult my poor wife found it to raise herself from her kneeling -position by her father’s bier, by resting one hand on the stage. Gone -was her magnetic power to thrill her audience, and, at the fall of the -curtain, those who had idolised her did not even recall her once! It -was heart-breaking. My poor Ophelia, the twilight had indeed crept on! - -As to the concert, the _Francs-Juges_ was poorly played but well -received; the _Concert-Stück_, played by Liszt with the passionate -impetuosity he always put into it, created a furore, and I, carried -away by enthusiasm, was idiotic enough to embrace him on the stage, a -piece of stupidity fortunately condoned by the audience. - -From then things went badly, and by the time we arrived at the symphony -not only were my pulses beating like sledge-hammers, but it was very -late indeed. I knew nothing of the rule of the Théâtre Italien, that -its musicians need not play after midnight, and when, after Weber’s -_Chorus_, I turned to review my orchestra before raising my baton, I -found that it consisted of five violins, two violas, four ’cellos, and -a trombone, all the others having slipped quietly away. - -In my consternation I could not think what to do. The audience did not -seem inclined to leave and loudly called for the symphony, one voice in -the gallery shouting, “Give us the _Marche au Supplice_!” - -“How can I,” cried I, “perform such a thing with five violins? Is it my -fault that the orchestra has disappeared?” - -I was crimson with rage and shame. - -With disappointed murmurs the people melted away. Of course my enemies -announced that my music “drove musicians out of the place.” - -That miserable evening brought in seven thousand francs, which went -into the gulf of my wife’s debts without, alas! filling it up. That was -only done after years of struggle and privation. - -I longed to give Henriette a splendid revenge, but there were no -English actors in Paris to help her with a complete play, and we -both saw that mutilated Shakespeare was worse than useless. I was, -therefore, obliged to content myself with taking vengeance for the -malicious reports about my music, and, with Henriette’s full approval, -I arranged for a concert of my own works at the Conservatoire. - -It was a terrible risk for a penniless man, but here, as ever, my wife -shewed herself the courageous opponent of half-measures and steadfastly -determined to face the chance of positive penury. - -The concert, for which I engaged the very best artists, amongst whom -were many of my friends, was a triumphant success. I was vindicated. - -My musicians (none of whom came from the Italien) beamed with joy, -and, to crown all, when the audience had dispersed I found waiting -for me a man with long black hair, piercing eyes, and wasted -form--genius-haunted, a colossus among giants--whom I had never seen -before, yet who stirred within me a strange emotion. - -Catching my hand, he poured forth a flood of burning praise and -appreciation that fired my heart and head. - -It was Paganini. - -This was on the 22nd December 1833. - -Thus began my friendship with that great artist to whom I owe so much -and whose generosity towards me has given rise to such absurd and -wicked reports. Some weeks later he said: - -“I have a beautiful Strad. viola which I long to play in public. Will -you write me a solo for it? I could not trust anyone but you.” - -“To do that one ought to play the viola,” I objected. “You alone could -do it satisfactorily.” - -But he insisted: - -“I am too ill to compose; it would be useless to try. You will do it -properly.” - -So to please him I tried to write a viola solo with orchestral -accompaniment, feeling sure that his power would enable him to dominate -the orchestra. It seemed to me an entirely new idea, and I burned to -carry it through. However, he called soon after and asked to see a -sketch of his part. - -“This won’t do,” he said, looking at the pauses, “there is too much -silence. I must be playing all the time.” - -“Did I not tell you so?” I answered. “What you want is a viola -concerto, and you are the only one who can write it.” - -He seemed disappointed and dropped the subject; a few days later, -suffering from the throat trouble of which he afterwards died, he left -for Nice and did not come back for three years. - -Still ruminating over my idea, I wove round the viola solo a series of -scenes, drawn from my memories of wanderings in the Abruzzi, which I -called _Childe Harold_, as there seemed to me about the whole symphony -a poetic melancholy worthy of Byron’s hero. It was first performed -at my concert, 23rd November 1834, but Girard, the conductor, made a -terrible hash of the _Pilgrim’s March_. However, being doubtful of my -own powers, I still allowed him to direct my concerts until, after the -fourth performance of _Harold_, seeing that he would not take it at the -proper _tempo_, I assumed command myself, and never but once after that -broke my rule of conducting my own compositions. - -We shall see how much cause I had to regret that one exception. - - - _To_ HUMBERT FERRAND. - - “MONTMARTRE, _30th August 1834_.--You are not - forgotten--not the least little bit, but you cannot know what a - slave I am to hard necessity. Had it not been for those confounded - newspaper articles I should have written to you a dozen times. - - “I will not write the usual empty phrases on your loss yet, if - anything could soften the blow, it would be that your father’s - death was as peaceful as one could wish. You speak of my father. - He wrote kindly and quickly in answer to my letter announcing the - birth of my boy. Henriette thanks you for your messages; she, too, - understands the depth of our friendship. I could write all night - but, as I have to tug at my galley-oar all day, I must go to sleep.” - - * * * * * - - “_30th November 1834._--I quite expected a letter from you to-day, - and although I am dropping with fatigue, I must snatch half an hour - to answer it. The _Symphonie Fantastique_ is out, and, as our poor - Liszt has dropped a terrible lot of money over it, we arranged with - Schlesinger that not one copy was to be given away. They are twenty - francs. Shall I buy one for you? - - “Would to heaven I could send it you without all this preface, but - you know we are still very straitened. My wife and I are as happy - as it is possible to be, in spite of our worldly troubles, and - little Louis is the dearest and sweetest of children.” - - * * * * * - - “_10th January 1835._--If I had had time I should already have - begun another work I am thinking of, but I am obliged to scribble - these wretched, ill-paid articles. Ah! if only art counted for - something with the Government perhaps I should not be reduced to - this. Never mind, I must find time somehow.” - - * * * * * - - “_April 1835._--I wrote, about a month ago, an introduction to you - for a young violinist named Allard, who is on his way to Geneva. - - “So you have been in Milan! Not a town I like, but it is the - threshold of Italy. I cannot tell you how much, when the weather - is fine, I long for my ancient Campagna and the wild hills that I - loved. - - “You ask for news of us. - - “Louis can nearly walk alone and Henriette is more devoted to him - than ever. I work like a nigger for the four papers whence I get - my daily bread. They are the _Rénovateur_, which pays badly; the - _Monde Dramatique_ and _Gazette Musicale_ which pay only fairly; - the _Débats_, which pays well. - - “Added to this is the nightmare of my musical life; I cannot find - time to compose. - - “I have begun a gigantic piece of work for seven hundred musicians, - to the memory of the great men of France. - - “It would soon be done if I had but one quiet month, but I dare - not give up a single day to it, lest we should want for absolute - necessaries. - - “Which concert do you refer to? I have given seven this season and - shall begin again in November. - - “At present we sit dumb under the triumph of Musard,[12] who, - puffed up by the success of his dancing-den concerts, looks upon - himself as a superior Mozart. Mozart never composed anything like - the ‘Pistol-shot Quadrille,’ consequently Mozart died of want. - - “Musard is earning twenty thousand francs a year, and Ballanche, - the immortal author of _Orpheus_ and _Antigone_ was nearly thrown - into prison, because he owed two hundred francs. - - “Think of it, Ferrand; does not madness lie that way? If I were a - bachelor, so that my rash doings would recoil on myself alone, I - know what I would do. - - “Never mind that now, though. Love me always and, to please me, - read de Vigny’s _Chatterton_.” - - “_December 1835._--Do not think me a sinner for leaving you so - long in silence. You can have no idea of my work--but I need not - emphasise that, for you know how much pleasure I have in writing to - you and that I should not lightly forego it. - - “I have seen Coste, who is publishing serially _Great Men of - Italy_, and he is going to approach you about contributing some - articles. Among those now out is a life of Benvenuto Cellini. Read - it, if you are not already familiar with the autobiography of that - bandit of genius. - - “_Harold_ is more successful even than last year, and I think it - quite outdoes the _Fantastique_. - - “They have accepted my _Cellini_ for the Opera; Alfred de Vigny[13] - and Auguste Barbier have written me a poem full of dainty vivacity - and colour. I have not begun to work at the music yet, because I am - in the same predicament as my hero, Cellini--short of money. Good - reports from Germany, thanks to Liszt’s piano arrangement of my - Symphony. - - * * * * * - - “_April 1826._--I still work frightfully hard at journalism. You - know I write concert critiques for the _Débats_, which are signed - ‘H.’ - - “They seem to be making a stir. Parisian artists call them - epoch-making. - - “In spite of M. Bertin (the editor’s) wish, I refused to review - either _I Puritani_ or that wretched _Juive_. I should have had to - find too much fault, and people would have put it down to jealousy. - - “Then there is the _Rénovateur_, wherein I can hardly control my - wrath over all these ‘pretty little trifles’; and _Picturesque - Italy_ has dragged an article out of me. - - “Next, the _Gazette Musicale_ plagues me for a _résumé_ of the - week’s inanities every Sunday. - - “Added to that I have tried every concert room in Paris, with - the idea of giving a concert, and find none suitable except the - Conservatoire, which is not available until after the last of the - regular concerts on the 3rd May. - - “We often talk of you to Barbier; he is a kindred soul whom you - would love. No one understands better than he the grandeur and - nobility of an artist’s calling. - - “Germany still talks of me; Vienna asks for a copy of the score of - the _Fantastique_, but I tell them I cannot possibly let them have - it, as I propose to give it on tour myself. - - “All the poets in Paris, from Scribe to Victor Hugo, offer me - subjects, but those idiotic directors stand in the way. Some day I - will set my foot upon their necks. - - “Now I must be off to the office of the _Débats_ with my article on - Beethoven’s _C Minor_. - - “Meyerbeer is coming soon to superintend his _Huguenots_, which I - am most anxious to hear. He is the only recognised musician who has - shown a keen interest in me. - - “Onslow has been paying me his usual bombastic compliments on the - _Pilgrim’s March_. I am glad to think there was not a word of truth - in them, I prefer open hatred to honeyed venom.” - - - - -XXIII - -THE REQUIEM - - -In 1836 M. de Gasparin, Minister of the Interior, feeling that -religious music should be better supported, allocated, yearly, a sum of -3000 francs to be given to a French composer, chosen by the Minister, -for either a mass or an oratorio; his idea being also to have it -executed at the expense of the Government. - -“I shall begin with Berlioz,” he said, “I am sure he could write a good -Requiem.” - -A friend of M. de Gasparin’s son told me this. My surprise was only -equalled by my delight, but, to make sure, I asked an audience of M. de -Gasparin. - -“It is quite true,” he said, “I am going out of office, and this is my -last bequest. You have, of course, received the official notification.” - -“No, monsieur; it was by a mere chance that I heard of your kind -intentions towards me.” - -“What! you ought to have had it a week ago. It must be an official -oversight; I will look into it.” - -But nothing happened, and I finally spoke to the Minister’s son, who -told me that there was an intrigue on foot to put off my commission -until his father’s retirement, after which the Director of Fine -Arts--who had no love for me, but whom I need not name since he is -dead--hoped that it would be shelved. - -This Monsieur X. was a Rossinist. One day I heard him giving his -opinion of composers, ancient and modern, and rejecting them all, -except Beethoven, whom he forgot. Suddenly he bethought him and said: - -“Let’s see. I believe there is another--a German--what is his name? -They play his symphonies at the Conservatoire. You may know him, -Monsieur Berlioz?” - -“Beethoven.” - -“Ah yes, Beethoven. I believe he has a certain amount of talent.” - -I heard that myself. _Beethoven not devoid of talent!_ - -M. de Gasparin had no intention of being ignored; therefore, finding -that nothing had been done, he sent for M. X. and ordered him sternly -to make out my appointment at once. - -Naturally this snub did not increase M. X.’s friendly feeling towards -me but, armed with my decree, I set to work with the greatest ardour. - -I had so long ached to try my hand at a Requiem that I flung myself -into it body and soul. My head seemed bursting with the ferment of -ideas, and I actually had to invent a sort of musical short-hand to get -on fast enough. - -All composers know the bitter despair of losing beautiful ideas through -want of time to jot them down. - -In spite of the rapidity with which I wrote, I afterwards made but few -corrections. - -Is it not strange that, during that volcanic time, I should twice over -have dreamed that I was sitting in the Meylan garden, under a beautiful -weeping acacia, alone. Estelle was not there, and I kept asking: - -“Where is she? Where is she?” - -Who can explain it? Only those who recognise the affinity of the -mysteries of the human heart with those of the magnet. - -Here, briefly, is a list of the miseries I endured over that Requiem. - -It was arranged that it should be performed at the memorial service -held every July for the victims of the Revolution of 1830. I, -consequently, had the parts copied, and was beginning rehearsals, when -I was told to stop, as the service was to be held without music. - -Of course the new Minister owed a certain amount to my copyists and -chorus (without mentioning myself), yet will it be believed that for -five months I had to besiege that department for those few hundred -francs? At last, losing all patience, I had a pretty lively quarrel -with M. X., and as I left his room the guns of the Invalides proclaimed -the fall of Constantine. - -Two hours later he sent for me in hot haste. A funeral service was to -be held for General Damrémont and the soldiers who had fallen in the -siege. - -Now mark! This being a military affair, General Bernard had charge -of it, and in this way M. X. hoped to get rid of me and also of the -necessity of paying his just debts. - -Here the drama becomes complicated. - -Cherubini, hearing that my Requiem was to be performed, worked himself -into a fever, for he considered that _his_ Requiem should have a -monopoly of such ceremonies. His rights, his dignity, his genius, all -set aside in favour of a hot-headed young heretic!! His friends, headed -by Halévy, started a cabal to oust me. - -Being one morning in the _Débats_ office, I saw Halévy come in. Now M. -Bertin, the editor, has always been one of my best and kindest friends, -and the frigid reception he and his son Armand gave the visitor -somewhat disconcerted him--my presence still more so--and he found a -change of tactics advisable. - -He followed M. Bertin into the next room, and I, through the open door, -heard him say that “Cherubini took it so to heart that he was ill in -bed, and he (Halévy) had come to beg M. Bertin to use his influence in -getting him the consolation of the Legion of Honour.” - -M. Berlin’s cold voice broke in: - -“Certainly, my dear Halévy, we will do our best to get Cherubini such -a well-merited distinction. But as far as the Requiem is concerned, if -Berlioz gives way one jot, _I will never speak to him again_.” - -So much for that failure. Next came a blacker plot. - -General Bernard agreed that I should have a free hand, and rehearsals -had already begun when M. X. sent for me again. This time it was: - -“Habeneck has always conducted our great official performances, and I -know he would be terribly hurt at being left out of this. Are you on -good terms with him?” - -“Why, no. We have quarrelled, goodness only knows why--I don’t! He has -not spoken to me for three years. I never troubled to find out the -reason, but he began by refusing to conduct one of my concerts. Still, -if he wishes to conduct this one, he may, but I reserve the right of -conducting one rehearsal.” - -On the great day princes, ministers, peers, deputies, the press--home -and foreign--and a mighty crowd gathered in the Invalides. It was most -important that I should have a real success, failure would have crushed -me irretrievably. - -My performers were rather curiously arranged. To get the right effect -in the _Tuba mirum_, the four brass bands were placed one at each -corner of the enormous body of instrumentalists and choristers. As -they join in, the _tempo_ doubles, and it is, of course, of the utmost -importance that the time should be absolutely clearly indicated. -Otherwise, my Titanic cataclysm--prepared with so much thought and care -by means of original and hitherto unknown combinations of instruments -to represent the Last Judgment--becomes merely a hideous pandemonium. - -Suspicious as usual, I took care to be close to Habeneck--in fact, back -to back with him--keeping an eye on the group of kettledrums (which he -could not see) as the critical moment drew near. - -There are about a thousand bars in my Requiem; will it be believed that -at this--the most important of all--Habeneck _calmly laid down his -baton and, with the utmost deliberation, took a pinch of snuff_. - -But my eye was upon him; turning on my heel, in a flash I stretched out -my arm and marked the four mighty beats. The executants followed me, -all went right, and my long-dreamed-of effect was a magnificent triumph. - -“Dear me,” bleated Habeneck, “I was quite in a perspiration; without -you we should have been done for.” - -“Yes, we should,” I answered, eyeing him steadily. - -Could it be that this man, in conjunction with M. X. and Cherubini, -planned this dastardly stroke? - -I do not like to think so, yet I have not the slightest doubt. God -forgive me if I wrong them. - -The Requiem had succeeded, but then began the usual sordid trouble -about payment. - -General Bernard, a thoroughly honourable man, had promised me ten -thousand francs for the performance as soon as I brought from the -Minister of the Interior a promise to pay the sum ordered by the -late Minister--M. de Gasparin--and also that due to the copyists and -choristers. - -But do you think I could get this letter? It was written out ready for -his signature, and from ten to four I waited in his ante-room. At last -he emerged and, being button-holed by his secretary, scrawled his name -to the precious document, and without a moment’s loss of time I hurried -off to General Bernard, who promptly handed me the ten thousand francs, -which I spent entirely in paying the performers. - -Of course I thought the Minister’s three thousand would soon follow. - -_Sancta simplicitas!_ Will it be credited that only by making most -unpleasant, almost scandalous, scenes could I, at the end of _eight -months_, get that money? - -Later on, when my good friend, M. de Gasparin, again came into office, -he tried to make up for my mortification by giving me the Legion of -Honour. But by that time I was past caring for such a commonplace -distinction. - -Duponchel, manager of the Opera and Bordogni, the singing-master, got -it at the same time. - -When the Requiem was printed, I dedicated it to M. de Gasparin, all the -more willingly that he was not then in power. - -What added greatly to the humour of the situation was that the -opposition newspapers dubbed me a “Government parasite,” and said I had -been paid thirty thousand francs. They only added a nought. - -Thus is history written. - -Ere long Cherubini played me another charming trick. - -A professorship of Harmony was vacant at the Conservatoire, for which I -applied. Cherubini sent for me, and, in his most honeyed voice, said: - -“Is it zat you present yourself for ze ’armonee?” - -“Yes, monsieur.” - -“Zen you vill get it. You ’ave a reputation, influence----” - -“Since I asked for it because I want it, I am glad, monsieur.” - -“Yes, but zat is vhere I am bothair; I vill zat anozzer get it.” - -“Then, monsieur, I withdraw.” - -“No, no! I vill not ’ave zat, because you see zey will say I am ze -cause zat you vizdraw.” - -“Then I won’t withdraw.” - -“But--but--zen you vill get ze place--and I did not vish it for you.” - -“Then what am I to do?” - -“You know zat you must be pianist, for teach ze ’armonee at -Conservatoire, my tear fallow.” - -“Ah, I never thought of that. That is a capital excuse. You want me to -say that, not being a pianist, I withdraw?” - -“Just so! just so, my tear fallow! But _I_ am not ze excuse zat you -vizdraw----” - -“Certainly not, monsieur; it was stupid of me to forget that only -pianists could teach Harmony.” - -“Yes, my tear boy; embrace me, for I lof you much.” - -A week after he gave the place to Bienaimé, who played the piano as -well as I do! - -Now I call that a thoroughly well-planned trick, and I was among the -first to laugh at it. - -Soon after, I seriously hurt the feelings of the friend who “lofed me -much.” - -It was at the first performance of his _Ali Baba_, about the emptiest, -feeblest thing he ever wrote. Near the end of the first act, tired of -hearing nothing striking, I called out: - -“Twenty francs for an idea!” - -In the middle of the second I raised my bid. - -“Forty francs for an idea!” - -The finale commenced. - -“Eighty francs for an idea!” - -The finale ended and I took myself off, remarking: - -“By Jove! I give it up. I’m not rich enough!” - -Of course indignant friends of Cherubini told him of my insolence and, -considering how he “lofed” me, he must have thought me an ungrateful -wretch. - -I had better explain here how I got on to the staff of the _Débats_. -One day, being utterly wretched and not knowing where to turn for -money, I wrote an extravagantly amusing tale called “Rubini at Calais.” -These contrasts happen sometimes. - -A few days after it came out in the _Gazette Musicale_, the _Journal -des Débats_ reproduced it, with a few words of cordial appreciation -from the editor. - -I went to thank M. Bertin, who offered me the proud post of musical -editor. This enabled me to throw up my least well-paid work; yet, -all the same, I abominate criticism, and feel quite ill from the -moment I see the advertisement of a new performance until I have -written my article on it. The ever-recurring task poisons my life. I -hate circumlocution, diplomacy, trimming, and all half-measures and -concessions. They are so much gall and wormwood to me. - -People call me passionate, rude, spiteful, prejudiced. O scrubby louts! -If you but knew all I _want_ to write of you, you would find your -present bed of nettles a couch of roses compared to the gridiron on -which I long to toast you! - -At least I can truly say that never have I grudged the fullest, -most heartfelt praise to all that aims at the good and true and -beautiful--even when it emanates from my bitterest foes. - -One day Armand Bertin, who was grieved at my narrow circumstances, told -me he had heard that I was to be appointed professor of composition -at the Conservatoire, in spite of Cherubini. M. X., whom I met at -the Opera, confirmed it, and I begged him to tender my thanks to the -Minister for a position that would be to me assured comfort. - -That was the last I heard of it. - -Still I got something--the post of librarian, which I still hold and -which brings me in 118 francs a month. - -While I was in England,[14] several worthy patriots tried to eject me, -and it was only the kind intervention of Victor Hugo--who had some -authority in the Chamber--that saved it for me. Another good friend -of mine was M. Charles Blanc, who became Director of Fine Arts, and -frequently helped me with a ready warmth I shall never forget. - - - - -XXIV - -FRIENDS IN NEED - - -And now for my opera and its deadly failure. - -The strange career of Benvenuto Cellini had made such an impression -on me that I stupidly concluded that it would be both dramatic and -interesting to other people. I therefore asked Léon de Wailly and -Auguste Barbier to write me a libretto on it. I must own that even -our friends thought it had not the elements essential to success, but -it pleased me, and even now I cannot see that it is inferior to many -others that are played daily. - -In order to please the management of the _Débats_, Duponchel, manager -of the Opera--who looked upon me as a species of lunatic--read the -libretto and agreed to take my opera. After which he went about saying -that he was going to put it on, not on account of the music, which was -ridiculous, but of the book, which was charming. - -Never shall I forget the misery of those three months’ rehearsals. -The indifference of the actors, riding for a fall, Habeneck’s bad -temper, the vague rumours I heard on all sides, all betrayed a general -hostility against which I was powerless. It was worse when we came to -the orchestra. The executants, seeing Habeneck’s surly manner, were -cold and reserved with me. Still they did their duty, which he did not. -He never could manage the quick _tempo_ of the saltarello; the dancers, -unable to dance to his dragging measure, complained to me. I cried: - -“Faster! Faster! Wake up!” - -Habeneck, in a rage, hit his desk and broke his bow. - -After several exhibitions of temper of this sort I said, calmly: - -“My good sir, breaking fifty bows will not prevent your time being -twice as slow as it ought to be. This is a saltarello.” - -He turned to the orchestra. - -“Since it is impossible to please M. Berlioz,” said he, “we will stop -for to-day. You may go.” - -If only I could have conducted myself! But in France authors are not -allowed to direct their own works in theatres. - -Years later I conducted my _Carnaval Romain_, where that very -saltarello comes in, without the wind instruments having any rehearsal -at all; and Habeneck, certain that I should come to grief, was present. -I rushed the allegro at the proper time and everything went perfectly. - -The audience cried “encore,” and the second time was even better than -the first. I met Habeneck as we went out, and threw four words at him -over my shoulder. - -“That’s how it goes.” He did not reply. - -I never felt so happy conducting as I did that day; the thought of the -torments Habeneck had made me suffer increased my pleasure. - - * * * * * - -But to return to _Benvenuto_. - -Gradually the larger part of the orchestra came over to my side, and -several declared that this was the most original score they had ever -played. Duponchel heard them and said: - -“Was ever such a right-about face? Now they think Berlioz’ music -charming, and the idiots are praising it up to the skies.” - -Still some malcontents remained, and two were found one night playing -_J’ai du bon tabac_ instead of their parts. - -It was just the same on the stage. The dancers pinched their partners, -who, by their shrieks, upset the chorus. When, in despair, I sent for -Duponchel he was never to be found; attending rehearsal was beneath -his dignity. - -The opera came on at last. The overture made a furore, the rest was -unmercifully hissed. However it was played three times. - -It is fourteen years (I write in 1850) since I was thus pilloried at -the opera, and I have just read over my poor score, carefully and -impartially. I cannot help thinking that it shows an originality, a -raciness and a brilliancy that I shall, probably, never have again and -which deserve a better fate.[15] - -_Benvenuto_ took me a long time to write and would never have been -ready--tied as I was by my bread-earning journalistic work--had it not -been for the help of a friend. - -It was heart-breaking, and I had almost given up the opera in despair -when Ernest Legouvé came to me, asking: - -“Is your opera done?” - -“First act not even ready yet. I have no time to compose.” - -“But supposing you had time----” - -“I would write from dawn till dark.” - -“How much would make you independent?” - -“Two thousand francs.” - -“And suppose someone--If someone--Come, do help me out!” - -“With what? What do you mean?” - -“Why, suppose a friend lent it to you?” - -“What friend could I ask for such a sum?” - -“You needn’t ask when I offer it----” - -Think of my relief! In real truth, next day Legouvé lent me two -thousand francs, and I finished _Benvenuto_. His noble heart--writer -and artist as he was--guessed my trouble and feared to wound me by his -offer! I have been fortunate in having many staunch friends. - -Paganini was back in Paris when _Benvenuto_ was slaughtered; he felt -for me deeply and said: - -“If I were a manager I would commission that young man to write me -three operas. He should be paid in advance, and I should make a -splendid thing by it.” - -Mortification and the suppressed rage in which I had lived during those -everlasting rehearsals, brought on a bad attack of bronchitis that kept -me in bed, unable to work. - -But we had to live, and I determined to give two concerts at the -Conservatoire. The first barely paid its expenses so, as an attraction, -I advertised the _Fantastique_ and _Harold_ together for the 16th -December 1838. - -Now Paganini, although it was written at his desire, had never heard -_Harold_, and, after the concert, as I waited--trembling, exhausted, -bathed in perspiration--he, with his little son, Achille, appeared at -the orchestra door, gesticulating violently. Consumption of the throat, -of which he afterwards died, prevented his speaking audibly and Achille -alone could interpret his wishes. - -He signed to the child, who climbed on a chair and put his ear close to -his father’s mouth, then turning to me he said: - -“Monsieur, my father orders me to tell you that never has he been so -struck by music. He wishes to kneel and thank you.” - -Confused and embarrassed, I could not speak, but Paganini seized my -arm, hoarsely ejaculating, “Yes! Yes!” dragged me into the theatre -where several of my players still lingered--and there knelt and kissed -my hand. - -Coming away in a fever from this strange scene, I met Armand Bertin; -stopping to speak to him in that intense cold sent me home to bed worse -than ever. Next day, as I lay, ill and alone, little Achille came in. - -“My father will be very sorry you are ill,” he said, “if he had not -been ill himself he would have come to see you. He told me to give you -this letter.” - -As I began to open it, the child stopped me: - -“He said you must read it alone. There is no answer.” And he hurried -out. - -I supposed it just a letter of congratulation; but here it is: - - “DEAR FRIEND,--Only Berlioz can recall Beethoven, and I, - who have heard that divine work--so worthy of your genius--beg - you to accept the enclosed 20,000 francs, as a tribute of - respect.--Believe me ever, your affectionate friend, - - NICCOLO PAGANINI. - - “PARIS, _18th Dec. 1838_.” - -I knew enough Italian to make out the letter, but it surprised me so -greatly that my head swam, and, without thinking of what I was doing, -I opened the little note which was enclosed and addressed to M. de -Rothschild. It was in French and ran: - - “MONSIEUR LE BARON,--Would you be so good as to hand over - the 20,000 francs that I deposited yesterday to M. Berlioz. - - PAGANINI.” - - - -Then I understood. - -My wife, coming in, thought that some new trouble had fallen upon us. - -“What is it now?” she cried. “Be brave! we have borne so much already.” - -“No, no--not that----” - -“What then?” - -“Paganini--has sent me--20,000 francs!” - -“Louis! Louis!” cried Henriette, rushing for her boy, “come here to -your mother and thank God.” - -And together they knelt by my bed--grateful mother and wondering child. -Oh Paganini! why could you not be there to see? - -Naturally, my first thought was to thank him. My letter seemed so poor, -so inadequate, that I am ashamed to give it here. There are feelings -beyond words. - -His munificent kindness was soon noised abroad and my room besieged -by friends anxious to know the facts. All rejoiced and some were -jealous--not of me, but of Paganini, who was rich enough to do such -deeds. Then began the comments, fury and lies of my opponents, followed -by the congratulatory letter of Janin and his eloquent article in the -_Débats_. - -For a week I lay in bed, burning with impatience to see and thank -my benefactor. Then I hurried to his house and found him in the -billiard-room. We embraced in silence then, as I poured forth broken -thanks, he spoke and--thanks to the silence of the room--I was able to -make out his words. - -“Not a word! It is so little and has given me the greatest pleasure -of my life. You cannot tell how much your music moves me. Ah!” he -cried, with a blow of his fist on the table, “now your enemies will be -silenced for they know I understand and am not easily satisfied.” - -But great as was his name it was not great enough to silence the dogs -of Paris; in a few weeks they were again baying at my heels. - -My earnest wish, now that all debts were paid and a handsome sum -remained in hand, was to write a masterpiece, grand, impassioned, -original, worthy of dedication to the master to whom I owed so much. - -But Paganini, growing worse, had left for Nice, whence alas! he -returned no more. I consulted him as to a suitable theme, but he -replied: - -“I cannot advise you. You best know what suits you best.” - -After much wavering I fixed on a choral symphony on Shakespeare’s -_Romeo and Juliet_, and wrote the prose words for the choral portion, -which Emile Deschamps, with his usual kindness and extraordinary -versatility, put into poetry for me. - -Ah! the joy of no more newspaper articles!--or at least hardly any. -Paganini had given me money to make music, and I made it. For seven -months, with only a few days’ intermission, did I work at my symphony. - -And, during those months, what a burning, exhilarating life I led! Ah! -the joy of floating on the halcyon sea of poetry; wafted onward by the -sweet soft breeze of imagination; warmed by the rays of that golden sun -of love unveiled by Shakespeare! I felt within me the god-like strength -to win my way to that blessed hidden isle, where the temple of pure art -raises its soaring columns to the sky. - -To others must I leave it to say whether I ever truly looked upon its -glories. - -Such as it was, my symphony was performed three times running, and each -time appeared to be a great success. To my sorrow, Paganini never heard -it nor read it. I hoped to see him again in Paris; then to send him the -printed score; but he died at Nice leaving to me the poignant sorrow -that he would never judge whether the work, undertaken to please him -and to justify his faith in its author, was worthy of his great trust. - -He, too, seemed sorry not to have known it, and in his letter of the -7th January 1840, he wrote: - -“Now it is well done; jealousy can but be silent.” - -Dear, noble friend! He never saw the ribald nonsense written about my -work; how one called my _Queen Mab_ music a badly-oiled squirt, how -another--speaking of the _Love-Scene_, which musicians place in the -forefront of my work--said I _did not understand Shakespeare_! - -Empty-headed toad, bursting with stupid self-importance! If you could -prove that.... - -Never was I more deeply hurt by criticism, and yet none of these high -priests of art deigned to point out the faults, which I thankfully -corrected, when told of them. - -For instance, Ernst’s secretary, M. Frankoski, wrote from Vienna saying -that the end of _Queen Mab_ was too abrupt; I therefore wrote the -present coda and destroyed the original one. - -The criticisms of M. d’Ortigue I also appreciated. The rest of the -alterations were my own. - -But the symphony is enormously difficult for the executants, both in -form and style, and needs most careful, conscientious practice and -perfect conducting--which means that none but first-rate artists in -each department could possibly do it. - -For this reason it will never be given in London. They do not give -enough time to rehearsals. The musicians there have no time for -music.[16] - - - - -XXV - -BRUSSELS--PARIS OPERA CONCERT - - - _To_ FRANZ LISZT. - - “PARIS, _6th August 1839_.--I long, dear friend, to - tell you all the musical news--at least all that I know. Not - that you will find anything new in it. You must be quite _blasé_ - with studying Italian modes of thought; they are dreadfully like - Parisian ones. - - “I know you have not the heart to laugh at them, for you are not - of those who find subject for mirth in the insults offered to our - Muse--you would rather, at any cost, hide the blemishes upon her - snowy robes and the woful rents in her shimmering veil of light. - - “So I will content myself with calmly stating facts and retailing - news, whereby I can preserve a dignified quiet, and can simply deal - out remarks without theorising. - - “The day before yesterday, as I was smoking a cigar in the - Boulevard des Italiens, Batta caught me by the arm. - - “‘What are they up to in London?’ I - asked. - - “‘Nothing whatever. They despise music - and poetry and drama--everything. They go to the Italian Opera - because the Queen goes, and that’s all. I feel quite thankful - not to be out of pocket and to have been clapped at two or three - concerts. That is all the British hospitality I can boast of. Even - Artot, in spite of his Philharmonic success, was horribly bored.’ - - “‘And Doehler?’ - - “‘Bored also.’ - - “‘Thalberg?’ - - “‘Is cultivating the provinces.’ - - “‘Benedict----’ - - “‘Encouraged by the success of his - first attempt, is writing an English opera.’ - - “‘Well, I’m off. Come to Hallé’s - to-night, we are going to drink and have some music.’ - - “M. Hallé is a young German pianist--tall, thin, and - long-haired--who plays magnificently, and seems to get at music by - instinct rather than by notes--that is to say, he is rather like - you. Real talent, immense knowledge, perfect execution, are among - the gifts we all recognise in him. - - “Hallé and Batta played Mendelssohn’s B flat sonata, then we had a - chorus over our beer, then Beethoven’s A major sonata, of which the - first movement excited us wildly, and the minuet and finale drove - us to the verge of lunacy. - - “Oh you untiring vagabond! when will you return, once more to - preside over our nights of music? - - “Between ourselves, you always had too many people at your - gatherings--too much talk, too little listening. You, alone, wasted - an amount of inspiration that was enough to turn one giddy, without - all the rest of the folks in addition. - - “Do you remember that evening at Legouvé’s when--the lights put - out--you played the C sharp minor sonata, we five lying in the - dark on the floor? My tears and Legouvé’s, Schoelcher’s wondering - respect, Goubeaux’s astonishment! Ah me! you were indeed sublime - that night! - - “But to get back to news. - - “There is a glorious row toward between our Opera troupe and the - Italian; they want to unite them in the Rue Le Pelletier. It will - be rather a shock. Lablache against Levasseur, Rubini against - Duprez, Tamburini against Dérivis, Grisi against Mdlle. Naudin and - the whole lot against the big drum. - - “We mean to be there to pick up the dead and the dying. Lots of - people find fault with the Opera orchestra, they say they do not - keep in tune, that the right-hand side tends to get a quarter-tone - higher than the left--which these gentlemen consider most - unreasonable---- - - “‘You seem to suffer in silence,’ one - of them said to me the other day. - - “‘I? I did not say I suffered at all,’ - I replied. ‘First, because I never said a word, and secondly, - because....’ - - “Sometimes when they are at their wit’s end they play _Don - Giovanni_. If Mozart could come back to this world, he would tell - them (like Molière’s president) that he would not have it _played_. - - “The other day, Ambroise Thomas, Morel, and I were saying we would - give five hundred francs for a good performance of Spontini’s - _Vestale_; that set us off--we know it by heart--and we went on - singing it till midnight. - - “But we missed you for our accompaniments. - - “I am just pouring out news as it comes into my head. Hiller has - sent me part of his _Romilda_ from Milan. One of our enemies wished - to throw himself off the Vendome Column the other day. He gave the - keeper forty francs to let him go up--then changed his mind and - walked down again. - - “Chopin is still away; they said he was very ill, but there - is no truth in it. Dumas has just written an exquisite - thing--_Mademoiselle de Belle Isle_--but that is out of my - province. There! no more news. - - “My indifferentism does not extend to you and your long absence. - Come back soon. It is high time you did, both for us and, I hope, - for yourself too. Adieu.” - -In 1840 the Government proposed celebrating the tenth anniversary of -the Revolution by exceptional ceremonies, and the Minister of the -Interior, M. de Remusat, who, like M. de Gasparin, had a soul for -music, commissioned me to write a symphony, leaving form and all -details entirely to me. - -I planned a great symphony, on broad, simple lines, and as it was to be -played in the open air where delicate orchestral effects would be lost, -I engaged a military band of two hundred men. - -Habeneck was anxious to conduct but, remembering the snuff trick, I -preferred to do my own conducting. - -Most fortunately, I invited a large audience to the final rehearsal, -feeling sure that my work could not be properly judged on the day of -performance. - -And so it proved. On the great Place de la Bastille, ten yards away, -you could make out nothing, and to make things worse, the legions of -the National Guard marched off right in the middle, to the rattle of -fifty kettledrums. That is the way music is always honoured in France -at public _fêtes_, apparently they think it is meant to please--the eye. - -Towards the end of this year I made my first musical venture out of -France, as M. Snel, of Brussels, asked me to direct some of my works -for the _Société de la Grande Harmonie_ in the Belgian capital. - -Nothing but a regular _coup d’état_ at home made the execution of this -plan possible. On one pretext or another, my wife had always set her -face against my leaving Paris, her real reason being a most foolish and -unfounded jealousy, for which there was absolutely no cause. - -But constant accusations forced me, in time, to justify them and to -take advantage of the position with which she credited me. - -Smuggling my music out of the house by degrees, I finally departed -secretly, leaving a letter of explanation and, accompanied by the lady -who has since been my constant travelling companion,[17] I went off to -Brussels. - -To cut short these sad and sordid details--after many painful scenes, -an amicable separation was arranged. I often saw my wife, my affection -for her remained unchanged--indeed, the miserable state of her health -but made her dearer to me. - -This is sufficient to explain my conduct to those who have only known -me since that time; I shall not recur to the subject as I am distinctly -not writing confessions. - -I gave two concerts in Brussels, where opinions were, as usual, divided -about me as in Paris. Fétis chose to find fault with my (perfectly -correct) harmony, and I was rather tempted to reply to him in one of -the papers, but finally decided to stick to my invariable rule to reply -to no criticism whatsoever. - -This being merely a trial trip, I arranged to spend five or six months -on tour in Germany, and therefore returned straight to Paris to give a -colossal farewell concert. - -I explained my wish to M. Pillet, director of the Opera, who was quite -willing to allow me the use of the theatre. - -But it was necessary to keep it secret so that Habeneck might not have -time to counterplot, as he would hardly look with a favourable eye on -anyone who supplanted him at the conductor’s desk. - -I, therefore, prepared all my music and engaged my performers without -telling them where the concert would be held, and when all was ready I -asked M. Pillet to tell Habeneck that the concert was entirely in my -hands. But he dared not face his terrible chief, and it fell to my lot -to write and inform him of our arrangements. - -He received my letter during a rehearsal, read it several times, -looked very black, then went down to the office and said that the plan -suited him exactly, as he wished to go into the country the day of the -concert. Still his disgust was quite evident, and it was shared by a -part of his orchestra, who thought to pay court to him by shewing it. - -The concert was for the benefit of the Opera, but I was to have five -hundred francs for my share and the Opera staff were to get no extra -remuneration whatever. Mindful of my experience with the Théâtre -Italien, I determined to devote my five hundred francs to the payment -of these men, all the more readily that I felt thunder in the air in -the form of Habeneck’s savage looks, the numbers of the _Charivari_ -(which cut me up tremendously) on the desks, and the constant little -confabulations that went on in odd corners. - -I engaged six hundred performers from different theatres and from the -Conservatoire, and in a week managed to drill them into something like -order, how I cannot imagine. - -I was on foot, baton in hand, the whole day, going from the Opera to -the Théâtre Italien, whence I engaged the chorus; thence to the Opera -Comique and to the Conservatoire to superintend different parts, for I -dared not relegate a single department to anyone else. - -Then, in the foyer of the Opera, I took the stringed instruments from -eight till twelve, and the wind from twelve to four. My throat was on -fire, my voice gone, my right arm almost paralysed. One day I should -have been ill with thirst and fatigue had not a kind chorus-singer had -the humanity to bring me a large glass of hot wine. - -The players of the Opera made me as much trouble as possible; they -learnt that the outside performers were to have twenty francs a piece, -so they demanded a like sum. - -“Not for the money,” said they, “but for the honour of the Opera.” - -“You shall have your twenty francs,” I cried; “but for heaven’s sake go -on and let me have a little peace.” - -On the day of the grand rehearsal all went fairly well, except the -_Queen Mab_ scherzo, which is too dainty to be treated by so large -a body of players. Unfortunately I did not think, at the time, of -entrusting it to a small band of picked musicians, so was reluctantly -obliged to cut it altogether out of the programme. - -On the day of the performance I had hoped to keep quiet until the -evening, but my friend, Leon Gatayes, came in to tell me that a plot -was being hatched by Habeneck’s partizans (who were indignant at his -being passed over) to ruin the whole affair. The drum parchments -were to be slit, the bows of the double-basses greased, and in the -middle of the concert a section of the audience was to shout for the -_Marseillaise_. - -After this, needless to say, I did not take much rest. Prowling -restlessly round the Opera, I had the good luck to meet Habeneck; I -caught him by the arm. - -“I hear your musicians are going to play me some tricks. I have my eye -on them.” - -“Oh, it’s all right,” he answered. “I have talked to them; you need not -be afraid.” - -“I am not afraid: on the contrary, I am comforting _you_. You see, if -anything happened, it would fall pretty heavily on you. But make your -mind easy; they won’t do anything.” - -And they did not. My copyist had been all day in the theatre guarding -the drum and double-basses, and I myself went round to all the desks to -ensure each man having his own part. - -Indeed I was made quite ashamed of myself when I got to the Dauverné -brothers; one of them looked up and said reproachfully: - -“Berlioz, surely you don’t doubt us? Aren’t we decent fellows and your -friends?” - -I grew quite hot and stopped my investigations, for which, it must be -owned, there really was some excuse. - -Nothing went wrong and my _Requiem_ produced its due effect, but -during the interval, according to rumour, Habeneck’s cabal howled for -the _Marseillaise_. I went to the front of the stage and shouted at the -top of my lungs: - -“We will _not_ play the _Marseillaise_; that is not what we are here -for,” and peace reigned once more. - -Although the receipts were eight thousand five hundred francs, the sum -put aside to pay the musicians was not sufficient to fulfil my promises -to them, and I had to supplement it by three hundred and fifty out of -my own pocket, as the red ink entry in the cashier’s book at the Opera -testifies to this day. - -Thus I organised the most tremendous concert Paris had ever known, and -was three hundred and fifty francs put of pocket for my pains. I was -likely to grow rich! - -M. Pillet is a gentleman and I never could understand how he allowed -it; perhaps the cashier never told him. - -I left for Germany a few days later on my pilgrimage. It was hard work -truly, but it was at least _musical_ hard work, and I had the untold -happiness of being safe away from the intrigues and platitudes of Paris -and among sympathetic musical people. - - - - -XXVI - -HECHINGEN--WEIMAR - - -My tour began with trouble; I had intended giving a concert in -Brussels, as Madame Nathan-Treillet, the idol of the Bruxellois, had -kindly promised to come from Paris purposely to sing for me. But she -fell seriously ill, and we knew that not all the symphonies in the -world would make up for her absence. - -When the catastrophe was announced the Grande Harmonie promptly fainted -_en bloc_, pipes went out as if from want of air, and people dispersed -groaning. In vain did I say, “Be calm! There will be no concert; -you will be spared the misery of listening to my music. Surely that -compensation is not to be despised!” It availed naught. _Their eyes -wept tears of beer et nolebant consolari_ because she came not. So my -concert went to the devil. - -Time passed; I was obliged to go on leaving the poor Belgians to their -fate. My anxiety for them, however, soon melted as I embarked on my -Rhine journey and went up to Mainz, hoping to be able to arrange a -concert there. - -I first went to Schott, patriarch of music publishers, who seemed -rather as if he belonged to the household of the Sleeping Beauty, his -somnolent sentences being interspersed with long silences. - -“I don’t think--you hardly will be able--give a concert--there is--no -orchestra--no public--no money.” - -Not being overburdened with patience, I went straight to the station -and off to Frankfort. To add fuel to my fire, the train was asleep too; -it “made haste slowly”; it did not _go_; it dawdled and, particularly -that day, made interminable organ pedal-points at each station. But -every adagio has an end, and finally I got to Frankfort--a well-built, -bright town, very much alive and up to date. - -Next day, crossing the square on my way to the theatre, I came up with -some young men carrying wind-instruments and asked them--since they -evidently belonged to the orchestra--to take my card to Guhr, the chief. - -“Ah,” said one, who spoke French, “we are glad to see you. M. Guhr -told us you were coming. We have done _King Lear_ twice, and though we -cannot offer you your Conservatoire orchestra, perhaps you will not be -very displeased with us.” - -Guhr appeared, sharp, incisive, with snapping dark eyes and quick -gestures; it was easy to see that he would not err on the side of -indulgence with his orchestra. He spoke French but not fluently -enough for his wishes, so he tumbled over his sentences, which were -interlarded with oaths in a thick German accent, with most ludicrous -results. - -The upshot of his flow of eloquence was that the two Milanollo girls -were creating such a furore that no other music would have the -slightest chance of success. - -He was voluble in excuses and ended: - -“What can I do, my dear fellow? These infant prodigies make money; -French Vaudevilles make money--I can’t refuse money, can I? But do stay -till to-morrow and you shall hear _Fidelio_ with Pischek and Mdlle. -Capitaine and you can give me your opinion of them.” - -So it was arranged that I should go on to Stuttgart and try my fortunes -with Lindpaintner, leaving the Frankfurters to cool down after the -fever caused by the charming little sisters, whom I had praised and -applauded in Paris but who got sadly in my way in Frankfort. - -_Fidelio_ was beautifully sung by Mdlle. Capitaine; she is not a -brilliant singer, but of all the women I heard in Germany I like her -best in her own style. In a box I espied my old friend, Ferdinand -Hiller, and a moment we were back on our student-comrade footing of -years before. He is at work on an oratorio _The Fall of Jerusalem_; I -am sorry that I have never been in Frankfort for one of his concerts to -hear and judge of his compositions, which I am told are of a very high -order. - -My first care was to get as much information as I could on the musical -resources of Stuttgart, for I found the expenses of carrying so much -concerted music about with me something enormous and only wished to -take what I might fairly expect to be performed. I finally decided on -two symphonies, an overture and some choral pieces, leaving all the -rest with that unlucky Guhr, who seemed fated to be bothered with me -and my music in some way or other. - -I had a letter of introduction to a Dr Schilling, whose title made me -shudder. I pictured an aged pedant in spectacles and red wig, armed -with a snuff-box and astride his hobbies, fugue and counterpoint, -caring for nothing but Bach and Marpurg and hating modern music in -general and mine in particular. - -So much for preconceived ideas. - -Dr Schilling was young, wore no spectacles, had a handsome crop of -black hair, smoked, took no snuff, never mentioned fugues or canons and -showed no dislike for modern music--not even mine. - -He spoke French about as badly as I did German and our intercourse was -not precisely on the lines of Herder and Kant. I made out that I could -either apply for the loan of the theatre, which would mean freedom from -expense and ensure the presence of the King and Court or else could -engage the _Salle de la Redoute_, where I should have everything to -manage and which the King never entered. - -I sought an interview with Baron von Topenheim, superintendent of the -theatre, who most kindly assured me that he would speak to the King -that evening: - -“But,” he added, “I think I ought to tell you that the acoustic of the -theatre is vile and that of the _Salle de la Redoute_ is good.” - -I was nonplussed and could only go and see if Lindpaintner would advise -me what to do. I do not know how to express my feelings towards him, -but at the end of ten minutes we might have been friends of ten years’ -standing. - -“First,” said he, “do not be deceived as to the musical importance of -our town--we have neither money nor public. (I thought of Mainz and -father Schott)! But since you are here we certainly cannot let you go -without hearing some of your works, about which we are very curious. -So you must take the _Redoute_ and as far as players are concerned, if -you will only give about eighty francs to their pension fund, they will -think it an honour to rehearse and to perform under your baton. Come -to-night and hear _Freyschütz_ and I will introduce you and you will -see that I am right.” - -He was as good as his word and all my fears melted away. Here was a -young, fiery, enthusiastic orchestra. I saw that from the way they -played Weber. - -They were intrepid readers, too, nothing upset, nothing disconcerted -them, they never missed a single sign of expression either. I had -chosen the _Symphonie Fantastique_ and _Francs-Juges_ and trembled for -my syncopations, my four notes against three, my unusual rhythms; but -they plunged straight in without a single mistake. - -I was astounded, for with two rehearsals the whole thing was done. - -It would have been grand had not illness on the day of the concert -taken away half my violins and left me with four firsts and four -seconds to fight that mass of wind and percussion. It was the more -harrowing, in that the King and Court were there in full force; -still it was intelligent and sympathetic, and the audience applauded -everything warmly except the _Pilgrim’s March_ from _Harold_, which -fell flat. I found it do so again when I separated it from the rest -of the symphony, which shows what a mistake it is to divide up some -compositions. - -After the concert I was congratulated by the King, by Prince Jerome -Bonaparte and by Count Niepperg, but I am afraid Lindpaintner, whose -approval was more to me than all, hated everything but the overture. I -am sure Dr Schilling found it hideous and was quite ashamed of having -introduced such a musical free-lance to his quiet town. - -However, being Councillor of State to the Prince of -Hohenzollern-Hechingen, he wrote and told His Highness of the savage he -had in tow, thinking that the said savage would find a more appropriate -setting in the wilds of the Black Forest than in civilised Stuttgart. - -The savage therefore--receiving a cordial invitation from the Prince’s -Privy Councillor, Baron de Billing--and being avid of new sensations, -took his way through the snow and the great pine woods to the little -town of Hechingen, without in the least troubling about what he should -do when he got there. - -I never recall this Black Forest journey without a medley of pleasant, -sad, sweet and troubled remembrances that strangely stir my heart. -The double mourning--white of the snow and black of the trees--spread -over the mountains; the cold wind’s dreary moan among the shivering, -restless pines; the ceaseless gnawing of sorrow at my heart, grown -stronger in this solitude, the bitter cold, then the arrival at -Hechingen, bright faces, gracious prince, _fêtes_, concerts, laughter, -promises to meet in Paris, then--good-bye--and once more the darkness -and the cold! - -Ah! what do I suffer even yet! What demon started me thinking of it? -But that is my way--without apparent cause, I am tormented, possessed, -just as in certain electric states of the air the leaves rustle without -wind. - -But back to Hechingen. The ruler of this minute principality was an -intellectual young man who seemed to have but two objects in life--to -make his people happy and to worship music. - -Can one imagine a more perfect existence? - -His subjects adored him and music loved him, for he understood her both -as poet and musician, and had composed some touching songs. - -He had a tiny orchestra, conducted by Täglichsbeck, whom I had met five -years earlier in Paris, and who received me with open-hearted kindness. - -It was most amusing to see me adapting my big orchestral works to this -little band, but, by dint of patience and goodwill all round, we did -wonders and gave _King Lear_, the _Pilgrims’ March_, the _Ball Scene_, -and other excerpts in really good style. - -Still, of course, I could not help longing for wider scope, and when -the Prince came to compliment me, I said: - -“Ah! I would give two years of my life if Your Highness could hear that -with my Conservatoire orchestra.” - -“Yes! yes!” he said. “I know that you have an imperial orchestra that -calls you ‘Sire,’ while I am but a Highness. I mean to go to Paris and -hear it one day--one day.” - -After the concert we supped at his villa, and his charming brightness -infected us all. Wishing me to hear a trio he had composed for piano, -tenor, and ’cello, Täglichsbeck took the piano, the Prince the air, and -I, amid laughter and applause, tried to sing the ’cello part. My high A -simply brought down the house. - -Two days later I returned to Stuttgart. - -The snow was melting on the mourning pines, stained was the fair white -mantle of the mountains--all was dreary and woe-worn--again at my heart -gnawed the worm that dieth not---- - - The rest is silence. - - - _To_ FRANZ LISZT. - - “You, my dear Liszt, know nothing of the uncertainties of the - wandering musician. You never have a moment’s anxiety as to - whether, when you get to a town, there will be a decent orchestra - or a theatre ready for you. To parody Louis XIV. you can say: - - “‘Orchestra, chorus, conductor are - myself.’ - - “A grand piano and a large hall are the extent of your needs. But - a poor travelling composer like myself depends upon a combination - most difficult to arrange and at any moment liable to be upset. How - much thought, precaution, fatigue it all requires. Yet look at the - reward! - - “Think of the compensation of _playing on an orchestra_, of having - under one’s hand this vast living instrument! - - “You _virtuosi_ are princes and kings by the grace of God, you - are born on the steps of the throne; we composers must fight - and conquer before we reign. Yet the difficulties and dangers - surmounted add brilliance to our victories, and we should perhaps - be happier than you--if we always had soldiers. - - “But this is a digression. - - “At Stuttgart I waited, hardly knowing what plans to make, until a - favourable answer came to my letter of enquiry addressed to Weimar. - Meanwhile I had another experience of the coldness of Germans - towards Beethoven. - - “Lindpaintner conducted a magnificent performance of the Leonore - overture at the Redoute Society’s concert, which elicited but the - faintest applause, and I heard a gentleman say afterwards that he - wished they would give Haydn’s symphonies instead of that noisy - music without any tune in it!!! - - “Really now, we do not own such Philistines as that in Paris! - - “I went to Weimar _via_ Carlsruhe (where there was nothing to be - done) and Mannheim--a cold, calm, respectable town, where love of - music will never keep the inhabitants awake. - - “The younger Lachner, a real artist, both modest and talented, is - director there; he hurriedly arranged a concert for me, and was - deeply grieved because the ineptitude of his trombones forbade our - giving the _Orgie_ in _Harold_. - - “Mannheim bored me horribly, and it was an intense relief to get - away and breathe freely once more. - - “Behold me then again afloat on the Rhine--I meet Guhr, still - swearing--I leave him--meet our friend Hiller, who tells me - his _Fall of Jerusalem_ is ready--I leave, in company with a - magnificent sore throat--sleep on the way--dream frightful things - that I will not repeat--reach Weimar, thoroughly ill--Lobe and - Chélard try in vain to prop me up--preparations for concert--first - rehearsal--I rejoice and am cured. - - “There is something broad, cultivated, liberal about the very air - of Weimar. Calm, luminous, peaceful, dreamy--how my heart beat as I - paced the streets! - - “Here is the summer-house of Goethe where the late Grand Duke - used to come to take part in the discussions of Schiller, Herder, - and Wieland. There, a Latin inscription traced by the author - of _Faust_. Those two attic windows, are they indeed those of - Schiller? Was it this humble roof that sheltered the mighty - enthusiasm of the author of _Don Carlos_? Was it right of Goethe, - the rich and powerful minister, thus to leave his friend in - poverty? I fear me that it was true friendship on the side of - Schiller only--Goethe loved himself too well, he lived too long and - death was to him a terror. - - “Schiller! Schiller! you deserved a less human friend! - - “It is one in the morning, with bitter cold and a brilliant moon. I - stand entranced before that small dark house; all is silent in this - city of the dead. - - “Within me surges up that passion of respect, regret, and love for - the genius that stretches out a hand from beyond the cold dark - grave, and lays a mighty finger on us poor obscure earth wanderers, - and upon that humble threshold I kneel, murmuring brokenly, - ‘Schiller! Schiller!’ - - “But I am no nearer the subject of my letter, dear friend; to - soothe myself I must think of another dweller in Weimar, the - talented but cold Hummel. - - “That calms me; I feel better! - - “Chélard, as Frenchman, artist, and friend, has done everything - possible to help me, and the Baron von Spiegel, the superintendent, - has most kindly offered me the theatre and orchestra. He did not - add the chorus, which was just as well, for I heard them trying - to do Marschner’s _Vampire_, and a more ghastly collection of - squallers I never heard. - - “Of the women soloists, too, the less said the better. - - “But are there words to describe the bass--Génast? Is he not a true - artist, a born tragedian? I wish I could have stayed long enough to - hear him in Shakespeare’s _King Lear_, which they were mounting. - - “The orchestra is good, but, to do me special honour, Chélard and - Lobe hunted up every available extra instrument in the place; there - was no harp to be found, but a good pianist and perfect musician, - named Montag, kindly arranged my harp parts and played them on the - piano. - - “Everyone was eagerly ready to help, and you may imagine the - rare and extreme joy of being promptly understood and followed. - I will spare you a description of the applause and recalls, the - compliments of their Highnesses, and the many new friends who, - waiting at the stage door, bore me off and kept me till three - o’clock next morning. - - “Where, oh where is my modesty that I retail all this? Adieu!” - - - - -XXVII - -MENDELSSOHN--WAGNER - - - _To_ STEPHEN HELLER. - - “On leaving Weimar, my dear Heller, my easiest plan seemed to be - to go to Leipzig, but I hesitated because Felix Mendelssohn was - musical dictator there, and, in spite of our Roman days together, - we had since followed such divergent lines that I could not be - sure of a sympathetic reception. Chélard, however, made me ashamed - of my misgivings. I wrote, and Mendelssohn replied so warmly and - promptly, bidding me welcome to Leipzig, that I could not resist - such an invitation, but set off at once, regretfully leaving Weimar - and my new friends. - - “My relations with Mendelssohn in Rome had been rather curious. - At our first meeting I had expressed a great dislike to the first - allegro in my _Sardanapalus_. - - “‘Do you really dislike it?’ he said, - eagerly. ‘I am so glad. I was afraid you were pleased with it, and - I think it simply horrid.’ - - “Then we nearly quarrelled next day because I spoke - enthusiastically of Gluck. He said disdainfully: - - “‘Do you like Gluck?’ as much as to - say, ‘How can a music-maker like you appreciate the majesty of - Gluck?’ - - “I took my revenge a few days after by putting on Montfort’s piano - a manuscript copy of an air from _Telemaco_ without the author’s - name to it. Mendelssohn came, picked it up thinking it was a bit - of Italian opera, and began parodying it. I stopped him in assumed - astonishment, saying: - - “‘Hallo, don’t you like Gluck?’<span - class="lftspc">”</span> - - “‘Gluck?’” - - “‘Why yes, my dear fellow. That is - Gluck, not Bellini as you seem to think. You see I know him - better than you do, and am more of your own opinion than you are - yourself.’” - - “One day, speaking of the uses of the metronome, he broke in-- - - “‘What’s the good of one? A musician - who can’t guess the time of a piece of music at sight is a - duffer.’” - - “I might have replied, but did not, that there were lots of - duffers. Soon after he asked to see my _King Lear_. He read it - through slowly, then, just as he was going to play it (his talent - for score-reading was incomparable), said: - - “‘Give me the time.’ - - “‘What for? You said yesterday that - only duffers needed to be told the time of a piece.’ - - “He did not show it, but these home thrusts annoyed him intensely. - He never mentioned Bach without adding ironically, ‘_your little - pupil_.’ In fact, over music he was a regular porcupine; you could - never tell where to have him. In every other way he was perfectly - charming and sweet-tempered. - - “In Rome I learnt to appreciate the beauties of his marvellous - _Fingal’s Cave_. Often, worn out by the scirocco and thoroughly - out of sorts, I would hunt him out and tear him away from his - composition. With perfect good humour--seeing my pitiable state--he - would lay aside his pen, and, with his extraordinary facility - in remembering intricate scores, would play whatever I chose to - name--he properly and soberly seated at the piano, I curled up in - a snappy bunch on his sofa. - - “He liked me, with my wearied voice, to murmur out my setting of - Moore’s melodies. He always had a certain amount of commendation - for my--little songs! - - “After a month of this intercourse--so full of interest for me--he - disappeared without saying good-bye, and I saw him no more. - - “His Leipzig letter, therefore, the more agreeably surprised me, - for it showed an unexpected and genial kindness of heart that I - found to be one of his most notable characteristics. - - “The Concert Society has a magnificent hall--the Gewandhaus--of - which the acoustic is perfect. I went straight to see it, and - stumbled into the middle of the final rehearsal of Mendelssohn’s - _Walpurgis Nacht_. - - “I am inclined to think[18] that this is the finest thing he has - yet done, and I hardly know which to praise most--orchestra, - chorus, or the whole combined effect. - - “As Mendelssohn came down from his desk, radiant with success, I - went to meet him. It was the right moment for our greetings, yet, - after the first words, the same thought struck us both--‘Twelve - years since we wandered day-dreaming in the Campagna!’ - - “‘Are you still a jester?’ he asked. - - “‘Ah no! my joking days are past. To - show you how sober and in earnest I am, I hereby solemnly beg a - priceless gift of you.’ - - “‘That is----’ - - “‘The baton with which you conduct your - new work.’ - - “‘By all means, if I may have yours - instead?’ - - “‘It will be copper for gold, still you - shall have it. - - “Next day came Mendelssohn’s musical sceptre, for which I returned - my heavy oak cudgel with the following note, which I hope would not - have disgraced the Last of the Mohicans:-- - - “‘Great Chief! To exchange our - tomahawks is our word given. Common is mine, plain is yours. Squaws - and Pale-faces alone love ornament. May we be brethren, so that, - when the Great Spirit calls us to the happy hunting grounds, our - warriors may hang our tomahawks side by side in the door-way of the - Long House.’” - - - _To_ JOSEPH D’ORTIGUE. - - “_28th February 1843._--My trade of galley-slave is my excuse for - not having written sooner. I have been, and am still, ill with - fatigue, the work involved in conducting rehearsals in both Leipzig - and Dresden is incredible. - - “Mendelssohn is most kind, friendly, and attentive--a master of the - highest rank. I can honestly say this in spite of his admiration - for my _songs_--of my symphonies, overtures, and _Requiem_ he says - never a word! - - “His _Walpurgis Nacht_ is one of the finest orchestral poems - imaginable. - - “Can you believe that Schumann, the taciturn, was so electrified by - my _Offertorium_ that he actually opened his mouth, and, shaking my - hand, said: - - “This _Offertorium_ surpasses all.’” - - - _To_ HELLER. - - “It really pains me to see a great master like Mendelssohn worried - with the paltry task of chorus-master. I never cease marvelling at - his patience and politeness. His every remark is calm and pleasant, - and his attitude is the more appreciated by those who, like myself, - know how rare such patience is. - - “I have often been accused of rudeness to the ladies of the Opera - chorus--a reputation which I own I richly deserve--but the very - minute there is question of a choral rehearsal a sort of dull - anger takes possession of me, my throat closes up, and I glare at - the singers very much like that Gascon who kicked an inoffensive - small boy, and, when reproached because the child had done nothing, - replied: - - “‘But just think if he _had_!’ - - “A charming little incident concluded my Leipzig visit. I had again - been ill, and, on leaving, asked my doctor for his account. ‘Write - me the theme of your _Offertorium_,’ he said, ‘and sign it, and I - shall be your debtor.’ - - “I hesitated, but finally did as he wished, and then, will you - believe that I missed the chance of a charming compliment? I wrote: - ‘To Dr Clarus.’ - - “‘Oh,’ said he, ‘you have added an _l_ - to my name.’ - - “I thought: - - “‘Patientibus _Carus_, sed inter doctes - _Clarus_,’ and had not the sense to say it! - - “There are times when I am really quite idiotic. - - “Now for your questions. You ask me to tell you-- - - “Is there a rival to Madame Schumann as a pianist? I believe not. - - “Is the musical tendency of Leipzig sound? I will not. - - “Is it true that the confession of faith here is ‘there is no God - but Bach, and Mendelssohn is his prophet?’ I ought not. - - “If the public is at fault in being contented with Lortzing’s - little operas? I cannot. - - “If I have heard any of those old five-part Masses they think so - much of here? I know not. - - “Good-bye. Write more of your lovely capriccios, and the Lord - preserve you from Choral Fugues!” - - - _To_ ERNST. - - “And now about Dresden. I was engaged to give two concerts there, - and found chorus, orchestra, and a noble tenor all complete! - Nowhere else in Germany have I happened on such wealth. Above all, - I found a friend--devoted, energetic, and enthusiastic--Charles - Lipinski, whom I knew in Paris. He so worked upon the musicians, by - firing them with ambition to do better than Leipzig, that they were - rabid for rehearsals. We had four, and they would gladly have had a - fifth had there been time. - - “The Dresden _Kapelle_ is directed by Reissiger, of whom we know - little in Paris, and by young Richard Wagner, who spent a long time - with us, without, however, making himself known except by a few - articles in the _Gazette Musicale_. He has only just received his - appointment, and, proud and pleased, is doing his very best to help - me. - - “He bore endless privations in France, with the added bitterness of - obscurity, yet he returned to Saxony and boldly wrote and composed - a five-act opera, _Rienzi_, of which the success was so great that - he followed it up with the _Flying Dutchman_. - - “A man who could, twice over, write words and music for an opera - must be exceptionally gifted, and the King of Saxony did well to - give him the appointment. - - “I only heard the second part of _Rienzi_, which is too long to be - played in one evening, and I cannot, in one hearing, pretend to - know it thoroughly, but I particularly noted a fine prayer and a - triumphal march. - - “The score of the _Flying Dutchman_ struck me by its sombre - colouring, and the clever effect of some tempestuous motifs. - But there, as in _Rienzi_, I thought he abused the use of the - _tremolo_--sign of a certain lazy attitude of mind against which - he must guard. - - “In spite of that, all honour to the royal remembrance that has - saved from despair such a highly endowed young artist. - - “My concerts were successful, the second even more so than the - first. What the public liked best were the _Requiem_--although we - could not give the most difficult numbers of it--and the _5th May - Cantata_, no doubt because the memory of Napoleon is as dear to the - Germans now as to us French.[19] - - “I made the acquaintance of that wonderful English harpist, - Parish-Alvars. He is indeed the Liszt of the harp! He produces the - most extraordinary effects, and has written a fantasia on _Moses_ - that Thalberg has most happily arranged for the piano. - - “Why on earth does he not come to Paris? - - “When I left Dresden to go back to Leipzig, Lipinski heard that - Mendelssohn had put the finale of _Romeo and Juliet_ in rehearsal, - and told me that if he could get a holiday he should go over and - hear it. - - “I thought it was a mere compliment, but judge of my consternation - when, on the day of the concert, he turned up. He had travelled - thirty-five leagues to hear a piece that was not given after all, - because the singer who was entrusted with Friar Lawrence’s part - refused to learn his notes! - - - _To_ H. HEINE. - - “So great has been my happiness in your good town of Brunswick that - I should like to tell it all to my dearest foes instead of to you, - my friend, to whom it can hardly give pleasure! - - “But a truce to irony; it is mere vanity that makes me begin like - this, taking a leaf out of your book--inimitable satirist! - - “How often in our talks have I regretted that nothing would make - you serious, that nothing would stop the restless working of those - feline claws, even when you were under the delusion that they were - safely sheathed in your velvet paws--you tiger-cat! - - “Yet look at the sensitive, delicate imagery of your writings--for - you _can_ sing major when you choose; at your enthusiasm when - you let yourself go; at your tender hidden love for your old - grandmother, Germany! - - “She, too, speaks of you with wistful tenderness; her elder sons - are dead and gone; there remains but you, whom she calls, with a - smile, her naughty boy. - - “It would be easy for you to make splendid travesties of my - Brunswick visit, yet such is my fearless confidence in you, that to - you I mean to tell everything. - - “That ideal family of musicians, the Müllers, received me and - arranged my concert. I counted altogether seven of them, brothers, - sons, and nephews, and never in all my travels did I see so devoted - and impassioned a set of men. - - “As soon as they grasped the chief difficulties of my symphonies - (which they did at the first rehearsal), their progress between - each meeting was simply incredible. On my expressing surprise, I - found that they were deceiving me about the time, and that the - whole orchestra actually arrived each morning an hour before I did - to practise the intricate passages. - - “At Zinkeisen’s request we actually dared to try _Queen Mab_, which - I had never hitherto dared do in Germany. ‘We will practise so - hard,’ said he, ‘that we _must_ do it.’ - - “He did not misjudge his colleagues; my dainty little lady in her - microscopic car, drawn by humming gnats at full gallop, disported - herself with all her tricksey caprices--to the delight of the good - Brunswickers. - - “You--own brother to fairies and will-o’-the-wisps and their chosen - poet laureate--will realise my misgivings; but never did my tiny - invisible queen glide more happily and gaily through her world of - silent harmonies. - - “Then, in contrast, with what magnificent fury did they not seize - on the _Orgie_ in _Harold_. - - “There was something absolutely terrifying and supernatural in - their diabolic rhythm as they bounded, roared, and clashed. Ah, you - poets! No joy is yours equal to the joy of conducting! - - “I longed to fold the whole orchestra in one comprehensive embrace, - but all I could do was cry in French-- - - “‘Gentlemen, you are sublime! You are - stupendous brigands!’ - - “The concert was crowded and the audience quite carried away; - hardly was the last chord struck when a frantic noise shook the - hall; it was compounded of the shouts of the listeners, the - discordant blare of the wind instruments, the tapping of bows on - the violins, and the clang of percussion instruments. - - “At first I felt perfectly savage at this ruin to my finale, but I - calmed down when George Müller, laden with flowers, stepped forward - and said in French: - - “‘Monsieur, allow me to offer these in - the name of the Ducal Kapelle.’ - - “The shouts and noise redoubled, my baton fell from my hand, and my - head whirled. - - “Hardly had I left the theatre when I was invited to a supper given - in my honour by artists and amateurs. There were a hundred and - fifty guests. - - “Toasts, speeches in French and German, to which I responded as - well as I could, then a most musical and effective hurrah was - chanted by all in chorus. The basses began on D, tenors on A, and - the ladies following on F♯, made up the chord of D major, to which - succeeded the sub-dominant, tonic, dominant, tonic. It was most - beautiful, most worthy of a really musical nation. Will you laugh - and call me a great simpleton for repeating all this, dear Heine? I - must candidly own that I enjoyed it. - - “From Brunswick I journeyed on to your native city of Hamburg, - where I again had the pleasure of a crowded house and appreciative - audience, and made many friends among the orchestra. Krebs alone - was reserved in his praise. ‘My dear fellow,’ said he, ‘in a few - years your music will be all over Germany, and will be popular, - and that will be an awful misfortune! Think of the imitations, the - eccentricities, the style it will let us in for! For Art’s sake it - were better you had never been born!!’ - - “Let us hope my poor symphonies are not as contagious as he thinks. - And so, O maker of poems, adieu!” - -From Hamburg I went to Berlin and Hanover, finishing at Darmstadt where -the Grand Duke insisted not only on my taking the full receipts from -my concert (so far Weimar--city of artists--was the only one that had -extended to me this courtesy) but, in addition, refused to let me pay -any of the expenses. - -Everywhere I met with success and made friends. - -Thus ended the longest and perhaps the most arduous pilgrimage ever -taken by a musician; its memory will, to me, be ever green. - -How can I thank thee, Germany, noble foster-mother to the sons of -music? How express my gratitude, admiration, and regret? I know not. I -can but bow before thee humbly and murmur brokenly-- - - “Vale Germania, alma parens!” - - - - -XXVIII - -A COLOSSAL CONCERT - - -When I got back to Paris, I found M. Pillet planning a revival of _Der -Freyschütz_. Now, by the rules of the Opera every word must be sung and -as there are spoken dialogues in Weber’s opera he engaged me to set -them in the form of recitations. - -“It is all wrong,” I said, “but as that is the only condition on -which it will be played and as, if I don’t do it, you will give it -to someone who does not know Weber as I do, I accept but with one -stipulation--that you change neither music nor libretto.” - -“Certainly,” he replied, “do you suppose I would revive _Robin des -Bois_?” - -“Very well, then I will get to work at once. How are you arranging the -parts?” - -“Madame Stolz, Agatha; Mdlle. Dobré, Annette; Duprez, Max.” - -“I bet he won’t take it,” I said. - -“Why not?” - -“You will see soon enough.” - -“Bouché will do well for Gaspard.” - -“And the Hermit?” - -“Oh--well--” said he, awkwardly, “you know the Hermit isn’t much use, I -was going--to cut him out.” - -“H’m! Really? Yet you are going to act _Freyschütz_ and not _Robin des -Bois_. Evidently, since we sha’n’t agree, it is better for me to retire -at once for I can’t stand that sort of correction.” - -“Dear me! how wholesale you are in your notions. Very well, we will -keep the Hermit, we will keep everything, lock, stock, and barrel.” - -Then my troubles began. The actors would make their recitations as slow -and stately as a tragedy; Duprez,--as I foretold--although ten years -before he had been a light tenor and had managed Max perfectly--found -it impossible to adapt his fine tenor voice to the music and demanded -all sorts of unheard-of transpositions and alterations. I cut them -short by refusing to disintegrate the rôle and it was handed over to -Marié. - -Then nothing would do but they must have a ballet, and as I could not -stop it I tried to arrange a sort of scene from Weber’s _Invitation to -the Waltz_; but that was not enough, so the dancers themselves took -it into their heads that some bits out of my symphonies would come in -nicely. - -Pillet agreed. I did not; and, to stop discussion, I said: - -“Now look here! I entirely object to introducing into _Der Freyschütz_ -music that is not Weber’s. To prove that I am not unreasonable, go and -ask Dessauer, who is over there; I will abide by his decision.” - -At Pillet’s first words Dessauer turned sharply to me: - -“Oh, Berlioz! don’t do that!” - -That ended the matter for the time and the opera was a success. But -when I went to Russia they cut and chopped and gnawed it until it was -simply a deformity. - -And _how_ they play what is left now! What a conductor! What a chorus! -What utterly sleepy, disgraceful ineptitude and misinterpretation of -everything by everybody! - -When will a new Christ come to purge our temple and drive out the money -changers with a scourge! - - * * * * * - -I returned to my treadmill--journalism--once more, and oh! the horror -of it! - -The misery of writing to order an article on nothing in particular--or -on things that, as far as I was concerned, simply did not exist since -they excited in me no feeling of any description whatsoever. Long ago -I remember spending three days over a critique without being able to -write one word. I cannot remember the subject but I well remember my -torments. - -I strode up and down, my brain on fire; I gazed at the setting sun, the -neighbouring gardens, the heights of Montmartre--my thoughts a thousand -miles away. - -Then, as I turned and saw that confounded white paper without a line on -it, I flew into the wildest rage. - -My unoffending guitar leant against the wall. I kicked it to bits; my -pistols stared at me from the wall with big round eyes. I gazed back, -then, tearing my hair, burst into burning tears. - -That soothed me somewhat, I turned those staring pistols face to the -wall and picked up my poor guitar which gave forth a plaintive wail. -Then my six-year-old boy, with whom I had unjustly found fault, tapped -at the door. As I did not answer he cried: - -“Father, is you friends?” - -“Yes, yes, my boy, I is friends!” and I flew to let him in. I took him -on my knee and laid his fair head on my shoulder; we dropped asleep -together and my article was forgotten. Next morning I managed to write -something. That is fifteen years ago and my martyrdom still lasts! It -is not that I mind work. I can grind at rehearsals for hours at a time; -can spend my nights in correcting proofs; can and will do anything and -everything that pertains to my work as a musician. - -But to eternally pamphleteer for a living! It is cruel! - - - _To_ HUMBERT FERRAND. - - “_3rd October 1844._--I read in the _Débats_ of your splendid - agricultural success and can imagine how much work and - perseverance it involves. You are a kind of Robinson Crusoe in - your island,[20] and when the sun shines I long to be with you, to - breathe the spicy air, to follow you from field to field, to listen - with you to the sweet silence of your lonely groves--our affection - is so sure, so whole-hearted, so perfect! - - “Yet when dull days come and mists rise, the fever of Paris seizes - me once more and I feel that here only is life possible. But can - you believe that a strange sort of torpid resignation with regard - to things musical has taken possession of me? It is as well, for - this indifference saves my strength for the time when a passionate - struggle may become necessary. - - “You have doubtless heard of the marvellous success of my _Requiem_ - in St Petersburg. Romberg most bravely tackled the enormous expense - and, thanks to the generosity of the Russian aristocracy, made a - profit of five thousand francs. Give me a despotic government as - nursing mother of Art! - - “If you could but be here this winter! I long to see you. I seem to - be going down hill so rapidly, life is so short! The end is often - before my eyes now and I clutch with frenzied eagerness at the - flowers beside my path as I slip quickly past. - - “There was a rumour that I was to succeed Habeneck at the Opera, - it is a dictatorship that I should enjoy in the interests of - Art. But, for that, Habeneck would have to be translated to the - Conservatoire, where Cherubini still goes to sleep. Perhaps when I - am old and incapable I shall go to the Conservatoire. At present I - am too young to dream of it!” - -I was railing more than usual at my hard fate when Strauss proposed -that we should give a concert at the close of the 1844 Exhibition, in -the empty building. - -It was a tremendous undertaking, for his original intention was to have -also a ball and a banquet to the exhibitors. But, owing to the fixed -idea of M. Delessert, chief of the police, that plots and risings were -in the air, we were forced to reduce it to a classical concert for me -and a popular promenade concert next day for Strauss. - -Rushing all over Paris I engaged nearly every musician of any -consequence and gathered a body of 1022 performers--all paid except the -singers from the lyric theatres, who helped me for love of music. - -The rehearsals and general arrangements were most arduous and my -anxiety lest we should fail nearly killed me. The great day, the 1st -August, came and at noon (the concert began at one o’clock) I went to -the Exhibition, noticing with pleasure the stream of carriages all -converging on the Champs Elysées. Everything inside the building was -in perfect order, everyone in his or her appointed place, and my good -friend and indefatigable librarian, M. Rocquemont, assured me that all -would go perfectly. - -Musical delirium seized me, I thought no more of public, receipts or -deficit, but was just raising my baton to begin when a violent smashing -of wood announced that the people had burst the barriers and filled the -hall. This meant success and I joyfully tapped my desk, crying: - -“Saved!” - -To direct my mass of performers I had Tilmant to conduct the wind, -Morel[21] the percussion instruments, and five chorus-masters, one in -the centre and four at the corners to guide those singers who were out -of my range. Thus there were seven deputy-conductors, whose arms rose -and fell with mine with incredible precision. - -The Blessing of the Daggers from the _Huguenots_ was given with an -imposing effect that surpassed my expectations. I wished Meyerbeer -could have heard it. It worked upon me so that my teeth chattered and -I shook with nervous ague. The concert had to be stopped while they -brought me some punch and a change of clothes, and by making a little -screen of the harps in their linen covers, I was enabled to dress right -before the audience without being seen. - -The concert finished triumphantly with the utmost satisfaction to -artists and audience but, as I went out, I had the gruesome pleasure -of seeing the hospital authorities counting our receipts and walking -off with the _eighth gross_--that is, four thousand francs--which left -me, when all was paid, with eight hundred francs for all my trouble and -anxiety. - -This mad experiment was hardly over when M. Amussat, my anatomy master -and friend, called. - -“Why, Berlioz!” he said, “what on earth is the matter? You are as -yellow as a guinea and look thoroughly overdone.” - -He felt my pulse. - -“You are on the verge of typhoid and must be bled.” - -“Very well, do it now.” - -He did, and then said: - -“You will please leave Paris at once and go to the Riviera or somewhere -south by the sea and forget all these exciting topics. Be off at once.” - -With my eight hundred francs I went to Nice. It moved me strangely to -see those haunts of thirteen years earlier--the days of my youth. - -I bathed, explored the well-known cliffs, paid my respects to the -old cannon, still asleep in the sun; the room in which I wrote _King -Lear_ was let to an English family so I found shelter in an old tower -adjoining the Ponchettes Rocks. After a month’s lotus-eating I turned -my face once more to Paris and took up again my Sisyphus burden. - -After giving some concerts in the circus of the Champs Elysées, which -fatigued me greatly I again took a rest on the Mediterranean shores -then gave some more concerts in Marseilles, Lyons and Lille of which -I have given a full account in my _Grotesques de la Musique_. Shortly -afterwards I started on my tour through Austria, Bohemia and Hungary. - - - - -XXIX - -THE RAKOCZY MARCH - - -Of my journey from Paris to Vienna I only have two distinct -impressions--one of a violent pain in my side that I thought would be -the death of me and the other of a species of god I saw at Augsbourg. -This worthy man had founded a sort of neo-christianity which was rather -popular: he looked a decent sort of fellow. - -At Ratisbon the steamer had gone, so I was obliged to wait two days and -then go on in a diligence, which made me feel as if I had gone back -into the Dark Ages. At Linz, however, I set foot on a fine steam-boat, -and found myself once more in A.D. 1845. - -But I had time for reflection and could not help wondering why on earth -we cannot all spell the names of places alike. There was I, hunting -through a German map. Linz was graciously pleased to be the same in -both languages, but where was Ratisbon? Who could possibly find it -masquerading as Regensburg? - -What should we say to the Germans if they persisted in calling Lyons, -Mittenberg, and Paris, Triffenstein? - -On landing at Vienna I at once got an idea of the passion for music of -the Austrians. - -The custom-house officer examining my trunks caught sight of the name -on them and asked: - -“Where is he? Where is he?” - -“I am he, monsieur.” - -“_Mein Gott_, M. Berlioz, where in the world have you been? We have -been waiting for you a week and couldn’t think what had become of you.” - -I thanked my worthy friend as well as my limited vocabulary would -allow, and could not help thinking that my non-appearance would never -give rise to similar anxiety at the Paris Douane. - -The first concert I went to was one in the Riding School, given by -nearly a thousand performers--most of them amateurs--for the benefit of -the Conservatoire, which has no, or very little, Government support. -The verve and precision with which that musical crowd rendered Mozart’s -delicate _Flauto Magico_ overture quite astonished me, I had not -believed it possible. - -I was delighted to make the acquaintance of Nicolaï, conductor of -the Kärnthnerthor Theatre; he has the three gifts necessary--to my -mind--for a perfect director. He is an experienced, enthusiastic -composer, has perfect intuition for rhythms and clear-cut and precise -mechanism. Finally, he is a clever organiser, sparing neither time nor -trouble; hence the wonderful unity and perfection of the Kärnthnerthor -orchestra. - -He arranged sacred concerts in the _Salle des Redoutes_ similar to -ours in Paris. There I heard a scena from _Oberon_, a fine symphony of -Nicolaï’s own and the incomparable B flat of Beethoven. - -It is in this fine hall that, thirty years since, Beethoven gave his -masterpieces--now worshipped by Europe, but then despised by the -Viennese, who crowded to hear Salieri’s operas! How my knees trembled -as I stood at the desk where once _he_ had stood! Nothing is changed; -the desk I used is the very one that he had used, by that staircase he -had come up to receive the applause of his few admirers, looked upon by -the rest of the audience as fanatics in search of eccentricity. - -For recognition Beethoven had to wait, but how he suffered! - -To my great delight Pischek, the splendid baritone I had met and -admired in Frankfort, suggested that he should make his Viennese début -at my concert. - -He had improved immensely; somehow his voice always gave rise in me to -a sort of exaltation or intoxication which, now, was intensified by its -splendid compass, passion and exquisite sweetness. - -No wonder that his success in a great ballad by Uhland (which bore -no resemblance to the inanities we call ballads in Paris) was -instantaneous and, as an encore, he gave a song that drove the audience -almost frantic. If only he would learn French what a furore he would -make in Paris! - -My reception by all in Vienna--even by my fellow-ploughmen, the -critics--was most cordial; they treated me as a man and a brother, for -which I am heartily grateful. - -After my third concert at a grand supper my friends presented me with a -silver-gilt baton, and the Emperor sent me eleven hundred francs with -the rather odd compliment, “Tell Berlioz I was really amused.” - -The rest of my doings, are they not written in the newspapers of the -day? - -The first thing I did on leaving Vienna for Pesth was to get into -trouble with the Danube, which, instead of remaining decently within -its banks, chose to overflow and inundate that muddy Slough of Despond -by courtesy called the Emperor’s highway. Only with an extra team of -horses had we been able to make way even so far, but at midnight I was -aroused from my resigned drowsiness by the stoppage of the carriage and -the boiling of waters all round. - -The driver had gone straight into the river, and dared not stir a step. -The water rose steadily. - -There was a Hungarian captain in the coupé who had spoken to me once or -twice through the little window between us; it was my turn to speak now: - -“Captain!” - -“Sir?” - -“Don’t you think we are going to be drowned?” - -“Yes, I do. Have a cigar.” - -His calm insolent coolness made me long to smash his head in; in a -fury I took his cigar and puffed violently. Still the water rose and -the desperate driver turned, and at the risk of spilling us all in the -river, climbed up the bank and took us straight-way--into a lake. This -time I thought must be the end of all and I called out to the soldier: - -“Captain, have you another cigar?” - -“Yes, sir.” - -“Let me have it quick, for it’s all up with us now!” - -But it was not, for an honest country man passing by (where the devil -could he have been going in such weather at such a time of night?) -extricated us and gave our unhappy Phæton directions whereby we made -our way to Pesth. At least it was a big town of which I asked my -captain the name. - -“Buda,” said he. - -“What? In my map the town opposite Pesth is called Ofen. Look.” - -“Oh yes, that’s Buda. Ofen is the German name for it.” - -“H’m, I see. German maps are as cleverly arranged as French ones; but I -think they might give us both names anyway.” - -On reaching Pesth I had a little pleasure party all to myself, in -accordance with a promise made to myself while soaking in the Danube -mud. I took a bath, drank two glasses of Tokay and slept twenty -hours--not, however, without visions of boiling waters and lakes of -mud. After which I set out on the war-path of concert-promoting, -greatly helped by the kindness of Count Raday, superintendent of the -National Theatre. - -Now the Hungarians are nothing if not patriotic. In every shop window -things are ticketed _hony_ (national) and, by the advice of an amateur -in Vienna, who had brought me a volume of Hungarian national airs, I -chose the Rakoczy March and arranged it as it now stands as finale to -the first part of my _Faust_. - -No sooner did the rumour spread that I had written _hony_ music than -Pesth began to ferment. - -How had I treated it? They feared profanation of that idolised melody, -which for so many years had made their hearts beat with lust of glory -and battle and liberty; all kinds of stories were rife, and at last -there came to me M. Horwath, editor of a Hungarian paper--who, unable -to curb his curiosity, had gone to inspect my march at the copyist’s. - -“I have seen your Rakoczy score,” he said, uneasily. - -“Well?” - -“Well; I feel horribly nervous about it.” - -“Bah! why?” - -“Your motif is introduced _piano_, and we are used to hearing it -started _fortissimo_.” - -“Yes, by the gipsies. Is that all? Don’t be alarmed. You shall have -such a forte as you never heard in your life. You can’t have read the -score carefully; remember the end is everything.” - -All the same, when the day came my throat tightened, as it did in -times of great excitement, when this devil of a thing came on. First -the trumpets gave out the rhythm, then the flutes and clarinets, with -a _pizzicato_ accompaniment of strings--softly outlining the air--the -audience remaining calm and judicial. Then, as there came a long -_crescendo_, broken by the dull beats of the big drum (as of distant -cannon) a strange restless movement was perceptible among them--and, -as the orchestra let itself go in a cataclysm of sweeping fury and -thunder, they could contain themselves no longer. - -Their overcharged souls burst with a tremendous explosion of feeling -that raised my hair with terror. - -I lost all hope of making the end audible,[22] and in the encore it was -no better; hardly could they contain themselves long enough to hear a -portion of the coda. - -Horwath, in his box, was like one possessed, and I could not resist a -smiling glance at him to ask-- - -“Are you still afraid or are you content with your _forte_?” - -It was lucky that this was the end of the programme, for certainly -these excitable people would have listened to nothing more. - -As I mopped my face in the little room set apart for me, a poorly -dressed man slipped quietly in. He threw himself upon me, his eyes full -of tears, and stammered out: - -“Ah, monsieur--the Hungarian--poor man--not speak French--Forgive, -excited--understood your cannon--Yes, big battle--Dogs of Germans!” -Striking his chest vehemently--“In heart of me you stay--ah, -French--Republican--know to make music of Revolution!” - -I cannot describe his frenzy; it was almost sublime. - -After that, of course, the Rakoczy ended every concert, and on leaving -I had to present the town with my MS. - -Later on I sent them a revised version, as some young Hungarians did -me the honour to present me with a silver crown of most exquisite -workmanship. - -When I got back to Vienna, the amateur who had given me the idea of -writing the march came to me in comical terror. - -“For mercy’s sake,” he begged, “never tell that I gave you the idea. -The excitement of it has reached Vienna, and I should get into dreadful -trouble if it were known.” - -Of course I promised silence, but, as this terrible affair is long -since done with, I may now add that he was called---- No, I only wished -to frighten him. I won’t tell! - - * * * * * - -I had not intended to include Prague in my round, but someone sent me -the Prague _Musical Gazette_ with three appreciative articles on my -_King Lear_ by Dr Ambros. I wrote to thank him and mentioned my doubts -of my reception by his fellow-citizens who, I had been told, would hear -no one but Mozart. His kind reply swept away my misgivings and made -me as eager to go as I had hitherto been the reverse. Of Prague my -recollections are golden. I gave six concerts, and at the last, had the -great joy of having Liszt to hear my _Romeo and Juliet_. - -At the close of the performance as I begged him to be my interpreter in -thanking the artists for their devotion and patience in spending three -weeks over my works, two or three of them came up to us and spoke to -him. - -“My office is changed,” he said, turning to me; “these gentlemen -request me to convey to you their thanks for the pleasure you have -given them and their joy in your pleasure.” - -This was indeed a red-letter day for me! There are not many such in my -life. - -As the music lovers of Vienna had given me a banquet and a silver-gilt -baton, those of Prague gave me a supper and a silver cup. - -But this same cup poured out such floods of champagne that Liszt, who -had made a charming and touching speech in my honour, was shipwrecked -therein. At two o’clock in the morning Belloni, his secretary, and I -were hard at work in the streets of Prague trying to persuade him to -wait till daylight to fight a Bohemian who had drunk more than he had. -We were rather anxious about him, as he had to give a concert at noon -next day, and at half-past eleven was still asleep. At length he was -awakened, jumped into a carriage, walked on to the platform, and played -as I verily believe he had never played before. There certainly is a -Providence over--pianists. - -I cannot express my tender regrets for those good Bohemians. - - “O Prague! when shall I see thee again?” - - - - -XXX - -PARIS--RUSSIA--LONDON - - -While trailing round Germany in my old post-chaise I composed my -_Damnation de Faust_. Each movement is punctuated by memories of the -place where it was written. For instance, the Peasant’s Dance was -written by the light of a shop gas-jet one night when I had lost myself -in Pesth, and I got up in the middle of the night in Prague to write -the song of the angelic choir. - -Thinking that my foreign tour might have enhanced my home reputation, -on my return to Paris I ventured to put it in rehearsal, going to -enormous expense for copying and for the hire of the Opera Comique. -Fatal reasoning! The indifference of the Parisians to art had increased -by leaps and bounds, the weather in November 1846 was vile, and they -preferred their warm homes to the unfashionable Opera Comique. - -It was twice performed to half empty houses and elicited no more -attention than if I had been the least of Conservatoire students. -Nothing in all my career has wounded me as this did. The lesson was -cruel but useful; I vowed that never again would I trust to the tender -mercies of Paris. - -I did not keep my vow, for later on I could not resist letting it hear -my _Childhood of Christ_, which proved a great success. - -[Berlioz does not mention the domestic troubles that added greatly to -his dejection. His wife was paralysed and his son Louis, brought up -in a divided household, naturally gave him anxiety, as the following -letter shows]: - - - _To_ LOUIS BERLIOZ. - - “_October 1846._--Your mother is a little better, but she is still - in bed and unable to speak. As the least agitation would be fatal - to her, do not write to her as you have done to me. - - “You talk of being a sailor. Do you wish to leave me? for, once - at sea, God knows when I shall see you again. Were I but free I - would go with you, and we would seek our fortunes in India or some - far-off land, but to travel one must have money, and only in France - can I get my living--such as it is. - - “I am speaking to you as if you were grown up. You must think over - what I say and you will understand. But remember that, whatever - happens, I am and always shall be your best and most devoted - friend. It would indeed be sad if, when you came to be twenty years - of age, you found yourself useless both to society and yourself. - Good-bye, dear child. My heartfelt love.” - -_Faust_ was my ruin. After two days of unutterable misery I decided to -retrieve my fortunes by a tour in Russia, if I could but collect enough -money first to pay my debts. Then did my kind friends rally round me -and apply healing balm to my wounded spirit. - -M. Berlin advanced me a thousand francs from the _Débats_ funds; one -friend lent me five hundred, others six or seven; M. Friedland, a young -German I had met in Prague, twelve hundred, and Hetzel a thousand. - -So, helped on all sides, I was able, with a clear conscience, to leave -for Russia on the 14th February 1847, feeling that few men have been -so blessed as I in the devoted generosity and kind-heartedness of my -single-minded friends. - -The time for concert-giving in Russia is Lent--March--as then the -theatres are all closed. The cold was intense, and during my whole -fortnight’s journey I never lost sight of the snow, and made only one -short stop in Berlin to beg a letter of introduction to the Empress -of Russia from her brother, the King of Prussia, which, with his -invariable kindness, he sent me at once. - -Before leaving Paris, Balzac said to me: - -“Be sure at Tilsit to hunt up the post-master, M. Nernst. He is a -clever, well-read man and may be useful to you.” - -So at Tilsit I walked into his office and there found a big man perched -on a high stool. - -“M. Nernst?” I said, taking off my hat. - -“Yes, monsieur; to whom have I the honour of speaking?” - -“To Hector Berlioz.” - -“No! not really?” He bounced off his stool and landed before me, cap in -hand. - -How well I remember my poor father’s happy pride in this story! “Not -really?” he would repeat, and his laughter would ring out again and -again. - -We had a cordial meeting-ground in our mutual friendship with Balzac, -and after some hours’ rest I set out, warmed and comforted, in a -horrible iron sledge wherein I endured a martyrdom till, four days -later, I reached St Petersburg. - -Hardly had I shaken off the traces of my journey when M. Lenz, an old -acquaintance, came to take me to Count Michael Wielhorski, from whom I -received a most flattering welcome. He and his brother, by their love -of art, their great connections and immense fortune, have made their -palace a sort of little Ministry of Fine Arts. - -By them I was introduced to Romberg, General Guédéonoff, superintendent -of the Imperial theatres, and General Lwoff, aide-de-camp to the -Emperor, a composer of rare talent. - -Not to go into too many details, my visits both to St Petersburg and -Moscow were the greatest success financially as well as artistically. -My first concert (at which I was summoned, hot and dishevelled with -my exertions, to the box of the Emperor, who was most gracious) made -eighteen thousand francs; the expenses were six thousand, the balance -was mine. - -I could not resist murmuring, as I turned to the south-west, “Ah, dear -Parisians!” - -I must just recall one of my red-letter days--the performance of _Romeo -and Juliet_ in St Petersburg. - -No wretched bargaining, no limitation of rehearsals here! - -I asked General Guédéonoff: - -“How many rehearsals can your Excellency allow me?” - -“How many? Why! as many as you want. They will rehearse until you are -satisfied.” - -And they did; consequently it was royally, imperially, organised and -performed. - -The vast theatre was full; diamonds, uniforms, helmets shone and -glittered everywhere. I, too, was in good form, and conducted without a -single mistake--a thing that, in those days, did not happen often. - -I was recalled more times than I could count, but I must own that I -paid small heed to the public, the divine Shakespearean poem that I -myself had made affected me so deeply that, the moment I was free, I -fled to a quiet room in the theatre, where my dear, good Ernst found me -in floods of tears. - -“Ah! nerves!” said he, “I know too well what it is.” - -And, holding my head, he let me sob like a hysterical girl for a -quarter of an hour. - -Despite its warm reception, I doubt that my symphony was rather over -the heads of the audience, therefore, when it was to be repeated, on -the advice of the cashier of the theatre, I added two scenes from -_Faust_. - -I heard of a funny incident at this second performance. One lady -present sat and was bored with most exemplary patience; she would not -have it thought that she could not understand this feast of music. -Proud of having stayed to the end, she said, as she left her box: - -“Yes, it is a tremendous thing, but quite intelligible. In that grand -introduction I could absolutely _see Romeo driving up in his gig_!!!” - -I spoke of Ernst just now--great artist and noble friend. He has been -compared to Chopin--a comparison both true and false. - -Chopin could never bear the restraints of time, and, I think, carried -his independence too far; he simply _could not_ play in time. Ernst, -while employing _rubato_, kept it within artistic limits, retaining -always a dignified sway over his own caprices. - -In Chopin’s compositions all the interest centres in the piano, his -orchestral concerto accompaniments are cold and practically useless. -Ernst is distinguished by quite the opposite--his concerted music is -not only brilliant for the solo instrument, but the symphonic interest -is thoroughly grateful and sustained. - -Even Beethoven allowed the orchestra to overpower the soloist, and, to -my mind, the perfect system is that adopted by Ernst, Vieuxtemps and -Liszt. - -Chopin was the delicate refined virtuoso of small gatherings, of groups -of intimate friends. Ernst was master of crowds; he loved them, and, -like Liszt, was at his very best with two thousand hearers to conquer. - - * * * * * - -The Great Feast being over, there was nothing to keep me in St -Petersburg, which, however, I left with great regret. - -Passing through Riga, I thought I would give a concert. The receipts -hardly covered the expenses (I think I was twelve francs to the -good), but it procured me the friendship of some pleasant artists and -amateurs, amongst them the post-master, who turned out to be a constant -reader of my newspaper articles. He looked me dubiously up and down, -and said: - -“You don’t _look_ a firebrand, but from your articles I should have -expected quite a different sort of man, for, devil take me! you write -with a dagger, not a pen!” - -The King of Prussia wishing to hear my _Faust_, I arranged to stay -ten days in Berlin. The Opera House was placed at my disposal, and I -was promised half the gross receipts. The orchestra and choruses were -capital, but I cannot say as much for the soloists, who were feeble in -the extreme. The King of Thule ballad was hissed, but whether this was -due to me or to the singer I cannot say--probably both--for the stalls -were filled with a malicious crowd who objected to a Frenchman having -the audacity to set to music a German classic. - -However, by the time we got to the _Danse des Sylphes_ I was in a bad -temper and refused the encore they gave it. - -The royalties were apparently satisfied; the Princess of Prussia said -many nice things and the King sent me the Red Eagle by Meyerbeer and -invited me to dinner at Sans Souci. I met with a cordial reception, -gave him news of his sister in Russia and finally ventured to say after -dinner was over: “Ah, sire, you are the true king of artists. Without -you could Spontini and Meyerbeer have gained a hearing? Was it not at -your suggestion that Mendelssohn composed his _Antigone_ music? Did not -you commission him to write the _Midsummer Night’s Dream_? Does not -your known love of art incite us all to do our best?” - -“Well, perhaps so,” he answered, “but there’s no need to say so much -about it.” - -But it is true. Now there are two other sovereigns who share his -interest--the Grand Duke of Saxe-Weimar and the blind young King of -Hanover. - - * * * * * - -On returning to France I took my boy to see his relations at La Côte -Saint-André. Poor Louis! how happy he was; petted by relations and old -servants and wandering about the fields, his little hand thrust in -mine. - -In a letter I had yesterday he says that that fortnight was the -happiest of his life. And now he is at the blockade of the Baltic, on -the eve of a naval battle--that hell upon the sea! The mere thought of -it maddens me; yet he chose it himself--this noble profession. But we -did not expect war then. - -Dear noble boy! at this minute they may be bombarding Bomarsund--it -will not bear thinking of, I must turn to other things--I can write no -more. - - * * * * * - -From Paris and its usual weary round of jealousy and intrigue, it was a -comfort to turn to London, whence I received the offer of an engagement -to conduct the grand English Opera for Jullien. In his usual rôle of -madman he got together orchestra, chorus, principals and theatre, -merely forgetting a repertoire. To cover expenses he would have had to -take ten thousand francs a night and this he expected to net out of an -English version of _Lucia di Lammermoor_! - - - _To_ TAJAN ROGÉ of St Petersburg. - - “LONDON, _November 1847_.--Dear Rogé,--Your letter should - have been answered sooner had it not been for the thousand and one - worries that overwhelmed me the minute I set foot in Paris. - - “You can have no idea of my existence in that infernal city that - thinks itself the home of Art. - - “Thank heaven I have escaped to England and am, financially, more - independent than I dared to hope. - - “Jullien, the manager here, is a most intrepid spirit and seems to - understand English people; he has made his fortune and is going - to make mine, he says. I let him have his own way since he does - nothing unworthy of art and good taste--but I have my doubts. - - “I have come _alone_ to London; you may guess my reasons. I badly - needed a little freedom which, so far, I have never been able to - get. Not one _coup d’état_ but a whole series was necessary before - I succeeded in shaking off my bonds. Yet now, although I am so busy - with rehearsals, my loneliness seems very odd. - - “Since I am in a confidential mood, will you believe that I had - a queer little love affair in St Petersburg with a girl--now - don’t laugh like a full orchestra in C major! It was poetic, - heart-rending, and perfectly innocent. - - “Oh, our walks! oh, the tears I shed when, like Faust’s Marguerite, - she said: ‘What can you see in me--a poor girl so far beneath you?’ - I thought I should die of despair when I left St Petersburg, and - was really ill when I found no letter from her in Berlin. She _did_ - promise to write, probably by now she is married. - - “I can picture it all again--the Neva banks, the setting sun. In a - maze of passion I pressed her hand to my heart, and sang her the - Love Song from _Romeo_. - - “Ah me! not two lines since I left her. - - “Good-bye; you at least will write to me.” - - - _To_ AUGUSTE MOREL. - - “76 HARLEY STREET, LONDON, _31st November 1847_.--Jullien - asks me confidentially to get your report on the success of Verdi’s - new opera.[23] We begin next week with the _Bride of Lammermoor_, - which can hardly help going well with Madame Gras and Reeves. He - has a beautiful voice, and sings as well as this awful English - language will allow. - - “I had a warm reception at one of Jullien’s concerts, but shall not - begin my own until January. - - “Your friend, M. Grimblot, has given me the _entrée_ to his club, - but heaven only knows what amusement is to be found in an English - club. Macready gave a magnificent dinner in my honour last week; - he is charming and most unassuming at home, though they say he is - terrible at rehearsal. I have seen him in a new tragedy, _Philip - van Artevelde_; he is grand, and has mounted the piece splendidly. - - “No one here understands the management and grouping of a crowd as - he does. It is masterly.” - - * * * * * - - “_8th December._--The opening of our season was a success. Madame - Gras and Reeves were recalled frantically four or five times, and - they both deserved it. - - “Reeves is a priceless discovery for Jullien; his voice is - exquisite in quality, he is a good musician, has an expressive - face, and plays with judgment.” - - * * * * * - - “_14th January._--Jullien has landed us all in a dreadful bog, but - don’t mention it in Paris, as we must not spoil his credit. It - is not the Drury Lane venture that has ruined him; that was done - before; now he has gone off to the provinces and is making a lot of - money with his promenade concerts, while we take a fair amount each - night at the theatre, none of which goes into our pockets, for _we - are not paid at all_. Only the orchestra, chorus, and work-people - are paid every week in order to keep the thing going somehow. - - “If Jullien does not pay me on his return, I shall arrange with - Lumley to give some concerts in Her Majesty’s Theatre, for there is - a good opening here since poor Mendelssohn’s death.” - - * * * * * - - “_12th February 1848._--My music has taken with the English as - fire to gunpowder. The _Rakoczy_ and _Danse des Sylphes_ were - encored. Everyone of importance, musically, was at Drury Lane - for my concert, and most of the artists came to congratulate me. - They had expected something diabolic, involved, incomprehensible. - Now we shall see how they agree with our Paris critics. Davison - himself wrote the _Times_ critique; they cut half of it out from - want of space; still the remainder has had its effect. Old Hogarth - of the _Daily News_ was truly comical: ‘My blood is on fire,’ - said he; ‘never have I been excited like this by music.’<span - class="lftspc">”</span> - -Jullien, coming finally to the end of his resources, was obliged to -call a council of war. It consisted of Sir Henry Bishop, Sir George -Smart, Planché, Gye, Marezeck, and myself. - -He talked wildly of the different operas he proposed to mount, and -finally came to _Iphigenia in Tauris_, which, like many others, is -promised yearly by the London managers. Impatient at my silence he -turned upon me: - -“Confound it all! surely you know that?” - -“Certainly I know it. What do you want me to tell you?” - -“How many acts there are, how many characters, what voices and, above -all, the style of setting and costume.” - -“Take a pen and paper and I will tell you. Four acts, three men: -Orestes, baritone; Pylades, tenor; Thoas, high bass; a grand woman’s -part, Iphigenia, soprano; a small one, Diana, mezzo-soprano. The -costumes you will not like, unfortunately; the Scythians are ragged -savages on the shores of the Black Sea; Orestes and Pylades are -shipwrecked Greeks. Pylades alone has two dresses--in the fourth act he -comes in in a helmet----” - -“A helmet!” cried Jullien, excitedly; “we are saved! I’ll write to -Paris for a golden helmet with a pearl coronet, and an ostrich plume as -long as my arm. We’ll have forty performances.” - -“Prodigious!” as good Dominie Sampson says. - -Needless to say, nothing happened. Reeves, the divine tenor, laughed at -the bare idea of singing Pylades, and Jullien quitted London shortly -after, leaving his theatre to go to pieces. - - - - -XXXI - -MY FATHER’S DEATH--MEYLAN - - -Already saddened on my return to Paris by the havoc and ruin caused by -the Revolution, it was but my usual fate to suffer in addition, the -terrible sorrow of losing my father. - -My mother had died ten years before, and, bitter as was that blow, it -was but light in comparison with the wrench of parting with this dearly -loved and sympathetic friend. - -We had so much in common, our tastes were similar in so many ways, and, -since he had gladly acknowledged himself in the wrong over my choice of -a profession, we had been so entirely at one. - -Ah! that I could have gratified his ardent wish to hear my _Requiem_, -but it was not to be. - -I pass over the sorrow of my home-coming, the meeting with my -grief-worn sisters, the sight of his empty chair, of his watch--still -living, though he was dead! - -A strange wish to indulge the luxury of grief crept over me; I must -drink this wormwood cup to the dregs; I must revisit Meylan--the early -home of my Mountain Star--and live over again my early love and sorrow. - -Even now my heart beats faster as I recall my journey. Thirty-three -years ago and I, a ghost, come back to my early haunts! As I climb -through the vineyards the thoughts, the aspirations, the desires of my -childish days crowd in upon me. - -Here did I sit with my father, playing _Nina_ to him on my flute; there -did Estelle stand. - -I turn and take in the whole picture; that blessed house, the garden, -the valley, the river, and the far-off Alpine glaciers. - -Once more I am young; life and love--a glorious poem--lie before me; -on my knees I cry to the hills, the valleys, the heavens: “Estelle! -Estelle!” - -Bleed, my heart, bleed! but leave me still the power to suffer! - -I rise and wander on, noting each familiar point. Here is her cherry -tree; there still flowers the plant of everlasting pea from which she -plucked blossoms. Sweet plant! bloom on in thy solitude! Good-bye! -good-bye! - -Good-bye to my childhood, to my lost love--Time sweeps me on; Stella! -Stella! - -The cold hand of Death lies heavy on my heart, yet around me are soft -sunlight, solitude, and silence. - - * * * * * - -Next day I asked my cousin Victor: - -“Do you know Madame F----?” - -“The lovely Estelle D----, do you mean?” - -“Yes, I loved her so when I was twelve--I love her yet.” - -“You idiot,” said Victor, laughing, “she is fifty-one, and has a son of -twenty-two.” - -He laughed again, and I laughed too, but mine was the cry of despair, -an April gleam through the rain. - -“Nevertheless I want to see her.” - -“Hector, I beg you will do no such thing. You will make a fool of -yourself and upset her.” - -“I want to see her,” I repeated doggedly, with clenched teeth. - -“Fifty-one!” he cried again, “you had much better keep your bright, -fresh, youthful memory of her.” - -“Well, then, I will write.” - -He gave me a pen, and subsided into an armchair in fits of laughter, -while my incoherent, despairing letter was composed. I sent it, but no -reply came. When next I go to Grenoble I mean to see her. - - * * * * * - -In May 1851 I was commissioned by Government to judge instruments at -the London Exhibition, and wrote to Joseph d’Ortigue in June 1851-- - -“I want to tell you of the extraordinary impression made on me by the -singing of six thousand Charity School children in St Paul’s Cathedral. -It is an annual affair, and is, beyond compare, the most imposing, the -most _Babylonian_ ceremony I ever witnessed. - -“It was a realisation of part of my dreams, and proof positive of the -unknown power of vast musical masses. - -“This fact is no more understood on the Continent than is Chinese music. - -“By-the-bye, France is easily first in the manufacture of musical -instruments. Erard, Sax and Vuillaume lead; all the others are of the -reed-pipe and tin-kettle tribe.” - - - _To_ LWOFF. - - “_January 1852._--It is impossible to do anything in Paris, so next - month I shall go back to England, where, at least, the _wish to - love music_ is real and persistent. If I can be of the least use to - you in my newspaper articles, commend me, dear master. It will be - a pleasure to tell our few earnest French readers of the great and - good things that are done in Russia. It is a debt I shall gladly - pay, since I never shall forget the warmth of my reception and the - kindness of your Empress and your great Emperor’s family. - - “What a pity he himself does not like music!” - - - _To_ J. D’ORTIGUE. - - “LONDON, _March 1852_.--Just a line to tell you of my - colossal success. Recalled I know not how often, and applauded - both as composer and conductor. This morning, in the _Times_, the - _Morning Post_, the _Advertiser_, and others, such effusions as - never were written before about me! Beale is wild with joy, for it - really is an event in the musical world. The orchestra at times - surpassed all that I have heard in _verve_, delicacy and power. - - “All the papers except the _Daily News_ puff me, and now I am - preparing Beethoven’s _Choral Symphony_, which, so far, has been - sadly mutilated here. - - “But can you believe that all the critics are against the _Vestal_, - of which we performed the first part yesterday? - - “I am utterly cast down at this _lapsus judicii_--am I not - weak?--and am ashamed of having succeeded at such a cost. Why can I - not remember that the good, the beautiful, the true, the false, the - ugly, are not the same to everyone?” - - * * * * * - - “_May 1852._--You speak of the expenses of our concerts; they are - enormous. Every impresario in London expected to lose this year. - In fact Beale, in the programme of the last concert, actually told - the public that the _Choral Symphony_ rehearsals had swallowed more - than a third of the subscription. - - “However, it has had a miraculous effect, and my success as - conductor was great also; indeed, it was such an event in the - musical world that people greatly doubted whether we should carry - it through.” - - * * * * * - - “_June 1852._--I leave to-morrow. How I shall regret my glorious - chorus and orchestra! Those beautiful women’s voices! - - “If only you had been here to hear our second performance of the - _Choral Symphony_. The effect in that enormous Exeter Hall was most - imposing. - - “Paris once more! where I must forget these melodious joys in my - daily task of critic--the only one left me in my precious native - land! - - “A naïf Birmingham amateur was heard the other day regretting - that I had not been engaged for the Birmingham Festival. ‘For I - hear,’ said he, ‘that Berlioz really is better than Costa!!!’<span - class="lftspc">”</span> - - - _To_ LOUIS BERLIOZ. - - “1852.--You say you are going mad! You must actually _be_ mad to - write me such letters in the midst of the strenuous fatigue of my - present life. - - “In your last letter from Havana you say you will arrive home with - a hundred francs. Now you say you owe forty. Now remember! I shall - take no notice in future of the nonsense you talk. - - “You chose your own profession--a hard one, I grant you, but the - hardest part is over. Only five more months, and you will be in - port for six months studying, after which you will be able to earn - your own living. - - “I am putting aside money for your expenses during those six - months. I can do no more. - - “What is this about torn shirts? Six weeks in Havana, and all your - clothes ruined! At that rate you will want dozens of shirts every - five months. You must be laughing at me. - - “Please weigh your language in writing to me. I do not like your - present style. Life is not strewn with roses, and I can give you no - career but _that which you yourself chose_. It is too late to alter - now.” - - - _To_ J. D’ORTIGUE. - - “_January 1854._--Yes, dear d’Ortigue, you are right. It is my - ungovernable passion for Art that is the cause of all my trouble, - all my real suffering. Forgive me for letting you read between the - lines. I knew it would hurt you, and yet I could not hold back the - words that burnt me, although I might have known that your opinions - on Art would be in accord with your religious feelings. - - “You know that I love the beautiful and the true, but I have - another love quite as ardent--the love of love. - - “And when for some idea, some misunderstanding, I feel that my love - may be lessened, something within me bursts asunder, and I cry like - a child with a broken toy. - - “I know it is puerile, but it is true, although I do my best - to cure myself. Like a true Christian, you have punished me by - returning good for evil. - - “Your notes are capital, and I think I shall be able to use them, - though never did I feel less in the mood for writing. - - “I cannot make a beginning. And I am sad--so sad! Life is slipping - away. I long to _work_, and am obliged to _drudge_ in order to - live. Adieu, adieu.” - - - - -XXXII - -POOR OPHELIA - - -I would I were done with these wearisome reminiscences! When I have -written a few pages more I shall have said enough to give a fair sketch -of the mill-round of thought, work and sorrow wherein I am fated to -turn, until I cease to turn for ever. However long may still be the -days of my pilgrimage, they can but resemble those that are past. The -same stony roads, the same Slough of Despond, with here and there a -blessed oasis of - -[Illustration: MONTMARTRE CEMETERY] - -rest or a mighty rock that I may painfully climb, thereon to forget, in -the evening sunshine, the cold rains of the plain beneath. So slow are -changes in men and things that one would need to live two hundred years -to mark any difference. - -Nanci, my sister, died of cancer, after six months’ frightful -suffering. Adèle, worn out with the fatigue and anxiety of nursing, -nearly followed her. - -Why had no doctor the humanity to put an end to that awful martyrdom -with a little chloroform? They administer it to avoid the pain of an -operation that lasts, perhaps, an hour, and they refuse it when they -know cure to be impossible, to spare months of torture, when death -would be the supreme good. Even savages are more humane. - -But no doubt my sister would have refused the boon had it been offered. -She would have said, “God’s will be done!” Would not God’s will have -been as well interpreted by a calm, swift death as by these months of -useless agony? - - * * * * * - -My wife, too, died--mercifully without much suffering. - -After four years’ death-in-life, unable to speak or move, she passed -quietly away at Montmartre on the 3rd March 1854. Her last hours were -sweetened by Louis’ presence. He was home on leave from Cherbourg four -days before she died. - -I had been out for two hours when one of her nurses came to tell me all -was over, and I returned but to draw aside the shroud and kiss her pale -forehead. - -Her portrait, painted in the days of her radiant beauty, and which I -had given her the year before, hung above her bed, looking calmly down -on the poor shell that had once enshrined her brilliant genius. - -My sufferings were indescribable. They were intensified by one feeling -that has always been the hardest for me to bear--that of pity. - -Again and again I went over Henriette’s troubles and their crushing -weight bore me to the earth. Her losses before our marriage, her -accident, the fiasco of her second appearance, her lost beauty and -renown, our home quarrels, her jealousy--not, in the end, without -cause--our separation, her son’s absence, her helplessness and dreary -years of retrospection, of contemplating approaching death and oblivion. - -Oh, the pity of it! It turns my brain. - -Shakespeare! Shakespeare! Thou alone couldst have understood us both, -thou alone couldst have pitied us--poor children of Art--loving, yet -wounding each other through our love! Thou art our God, if that other -God sits aloof in sublime indifference to our torments. Thou art our -father. Help us! Save us! - - De profundis ad te clamo! - -Alone I went about my sorrowful task. - -The Protestant pastor lived at the other side of Paris and I went to -him that evening. As my cab passed the Odéon I thought of how, in that -theatre twenty-six years before, my poor dead wife had burst like a -meteor upon Paris and had come forward, trembling and awed at her own -success, to receive the plaudits of all that was best and brightest in -France. Ophelia! Ophelia! - -Through that door I saw her pass to a rehearsal of _Othello_. I was -nothing to her then. She would have thought the prophet mad who pointed -out a worn, distraught, unknown youth and said: - -“Behold your husband!” - -Yet he it is, my poor Ophelia, he who loved and suffered with you, who -tends you on this last long journey. - - “... Forty thousand brothers - Could not, with all their quantity of love, - Make up my sum.” - -Shakespeare! Shakespeare! The waters have gone over me. Father! Father! -where art thou? - - * * * * * - -Next day, out of love for me, came d’Ortigue, Brizeux, Léon de Wailly, -some artists brought by good Baron Taylor and other kind friends to -accompany Henriette to her last rest. Twenty-five years earlier all -intellectual Paris would have been there--now, he, who loved her and -had not the courage to go with her to the little Montmartre God’s-acre, -sits and weeps alone in her deserted garden, and her young son wanders -afar on the dreary ocean. - -They turned her face towards the north, to that England she never saw -again, and her humble grave bears only-- - -Henriette Constance Berlioz-Smithson, born at Ennis, Ireland, died at -Montmartre, 3rd March 1854. - -The papers barely noticed her death, but Jules Janin remembered and -wrote in the _Débats_: - - “These stage divinities how soon they pass! - - “How short a time it seems since we sat with Juliet on that balcony - above the Verona road. Juliet, so fair, so ethereal, listening - dreamily as Romeo speaks, her golden voice vibrating with the - undying poetry of Shakespeare, the whole world bound by her magic - spells! - - “She was barely twenty, this Miss Smithson, and, without knowing - it, she was a poem, a passion, a revolution--By her absolute truth - she conquered. - - “She it was who gave the lead to Dorval, Malibran, Victor Hugo and - Berlioz. To her Delacroix owed his conception of sweet Ophelia. - - “Now she is dead and her dream of glory--that glory which passes so - rapidly--is over and done. - - “In my young days they used to sing a funeral dirge to Juliet, - wherein recurred, like an old Greek chorus, the heart-breaking - refrain, ‘Throw flowers! Throw flowers!’ - - “‘Juliet is dead. Throw flowers! - Death lies upon her, softly as frost on April grass. Throw flowers! - Her love song is a funeral knell. Throw flowers! - Her marriage feast the feast of Death. Throw flowers! - Her marriage blossoms deck her tomb. Throw flowers!’” - - - -Liszt wrote from Weimar as only he can write: - -“She inspired you, you loved and sang of her. Her work is done!” - - - _To_ LOUIS BERLIOZ. - - “_6th March 1854._--My poor dear Louis,--You know all. I am alone - and writing to you in the large sitting-room next to her deserted - bedroom. I have just been to the cemetery where I laid two wreaths - upon her grave--one for you and one for myself. The servants are - still here and are arranging things for the sale; I want to realise - as much as possible for you. - - “I have kept her hair. - - “You will never know how much we made each other suffer; our very - suffering bound us one to the other. I could neither live with her - nor without her. - - “Alexis and I talked much of you yesterday. How I wish you were - more rational! It would make me so happy to feel that you were sure - of yourself. - - “I shall be able to do more for you now than has hitherto been - possible, but I shall take every precaution to prevent your - squandering money. Alexis agrees that I am right. - - “At present I am penniless and shall be for at least six months; I - must pay the doctor and the sale will bring in but little. The King - of Saxony’s director wishes me to be in Dresden next month and I - shall have to borrow money for my journey.” - - * * * * * - - “_23rd March._--Your letter is an unexpected pleasure, dear boy. - With seventy francs a month you can easily save, if you give up - your habit of squandering money. Tell me whether you can get back - the watch you pawned at Havre. My father gave it to you. If you - cannot, I will buy you another. I have had a watch chain made for - you of your mother’s hair; keep it carefully. I also had a bracelet - made for my sister, the rest of the hair I shall keep. - - “Did you see Jules Janin’s touching words on your poor mother and - his exquisite reference to my _Romeo_ ‘Throw flowers?’ I hope for - another letter from you before Saturday. - - “God grant that my German trip may bring in something! The - Montmartre house is not let and I may have to pay rent there a year - longer.” - - * * * * * - - What more can I say of the two great passions that influenced - my life? One was a childhood’s memory--yet not to be despised - since, with my love for Estelle, awoke my love of nature. The - other--coming in my manhood with my worship of Shakespeare--took - possession of me and overwhelmed me completely. Love of Art and the - artist intermingled, each acting upon and intensifying the other. - - Those who cannot understand this will still less understand my - vague poetic longings at the scent of a lovely rose, the sight of a - beautiful harp. Estelle was the rose that bloomed alone, Henriette - the harp that shared my music, my joys, my sorrows and of which - alas! I snapped so many, many strings! - - - _To_ LOUIS BERLIOZ. - - “_October 1854._--I am sad this morning, dear Louis. I dreamt that - we were walking--you and I--in the garden at La Côte, and not - knowing exactly where you are, my dream troubles me. - - “I have some news that will not, I think, surprise you. Two months - ago I married again. - - “I could not live alone, neither could I desert the woman who, for - fourteen years, has been my companion. - - “My uncle and all my friends agree with me. - - “I need not tell you that your interests are safe. If I die first - my wife will have but a quarter of my small fortune and even that I - know she intends to leave to you. - - “If you still have any painful thoughts of Mademoiselle Recio I - know you will hide them for my sake. - - “We were married very quietly without fuss or mystery. If you - mention this in your letters, write nothing that I cannot show to - my wife; I must have no cloud in my home. But your own heart will - tell you what to do. - - “Admiral Cécile tells me he has received your letter. You cannot - enter the Marines until the end of your three years’ cruise. - - “I am overwhelmed with rehearsals and arrangements for producing my - new work, the _Childhood of Christ_. It bristles with difficulties. - - “Good-bye, dear Louis.” - - - - -XXXIII - -DEAD SEA FRUIT - - -The end of my career is in sight, or if not the end, yet are my feet -set on the steep slope leading to the goal; worn and tired, I am -consumed by a burning fire that sometimes rages with such violence as -to frighten me. - -I begin to know French, to write fairly a page of verse, prose or -score; I love an orchestra, and can direct it; I worship Art in every -form. But I belong to a nation that cares for none of these things. -Parisians are barbarians; not one rich man in ten has a library, no -one buys books--they hire feeble novels at a penny a volume from -circulating libraries--this is sufficient mental food for all classes. -For a few francs a month they hire from the music shops the flat and -dreary compositions with which they overflow. - -What have I to do with Paris? That Paris--the apotheosis of -industrialism in Art--that casts a scornful eye upon me, holding me -only too honoured in fulfilling my calling of pamphleteer, for which -alone, it holds, I came into the world. I _know_ what I could do with -dramatic music, but to try it would be both useless and dangerous. - -There is no suitable theatre; I must be absolute dictator of a grand -orchestra; I must have the eager good-will of all, from prima-donna to -scene-shifter; my theatre must be a gigantic musical instrument. - -I could play it. - -But this will never be; it would give too much scope to the cabals of -my foes, and not only should I have to face the hatred of my critics -but also the vindictive fury caused by my original style. - -People would naturally ask, “If he becomes popular, where will our -compositions be?” - -I proved this at Covent Garden, where a crew of Italians nearly wrecked -_Benvenuto Cellini_ by hissing from beginning to end. Costa was -credited with this cabal, since I had fallen foul of him in newspaper -articles for the liberties he took with the scores of the great -masters. However, guilty or not, he knew how to quiet my doubts by -doing his best to help me during my rehearsals. - -Indignant at my treatment, the artists of London tried, -unsuccessfully, to arrange a testimonial concert for me, and through -my good friend Beale offered me a present of two hundred guineas, the -subscription list being headed by Messrs Broadwood. Although greatly -moved at the kindly generosity of the present, I was unable to accept -it. French ideas would not permit. - -For three years I have been worried by the vision of a grand opera -to which I want to write both words and music, as I have done in the -_Childhood of Christ_. - -So far I have resisted temptation. May I hold out until the end![24] - -To me the subject is magnificent, soul-stirring, which means that the -Parisians would find it flat and wearisome. - -Even if I could believe they might like it, where should I find a -woman with beauty, voice, dramatic talent and fiery soul to fill the -chief part? The very thought of hurling myself once more against the -obstacles raised by the crass stupidity of my opponents makes my blood -boil. The shock of our collision would be too dangerous, for I feel I -could kill them all like dogs. - -Even from concert-giving in Paris I am excluded, for, thanks to the -machinations of my enemies in the Conservatoire, the Minister of the -Interior at the prize-giving took occasion to state that in future the -hall of the Conservatoire (the only possible one for my purpose) would -be lent to _no one_. The no one could only be me, for, with two or -three exceptions in twenty years, I was the only one who so used it. - -Although most of the executants in this celebrated society are my -friends, they are overborne by a hostile chief and a small clique; my -compositions, therefore, are never given. Once, six or seven years -ago, they did ask me for some excerpts from _Faust_, then tried to damn -them by sandwiching them between Beethoven’s _C minor Symphony_ and -Spontini’s finale to the _Vestal_. Fortunately they were disappointed, -the Sylph scene was enthusiastically encored; but Girard, who had -conducted the whole thing clumsily and colourlessly, pretended he could -not find the place, so it was not repeated. - -After that they avoided my works like the plague. - -Of all the millionaires in Paris none thinks of doing anything for -music. Paganini’s example was not followed, and the great artist’s gift -to me stands alone. - -No; a composer of classical music must be absolutely independent or -must resign himself to all the miseries from which I suffered--to -incomplete rehearsals, to inconvenient concert halls, to checks of -every foreseen and unforeseen kind, and to the rapacity of the hospital -tax-gatherers, who seize one-eighth of the _gross_ receipts. Usually I -am willing and anxious to make every possible sacrifice, but sometimes -occasions arise when such sacrifices cease to be generous and become -criminal. - -Two years ago, when there was still some hope of my wife’s recovery, -and therefore expenses were greatly increased, I dreamt one night of a -symphony. - -On waking I could still recall nearly all the first movement, an -allegro in A minor. As I moved towards my writing-table to put it down, -I suddenly thought: - -“If I do this I shall be drawn on to compose the rest, and, since my -ideas always expand, it will end by being enormously long; it will take -me three or four months; I shall write no articles, and my income will -fail. When the symphony is written I shall, weakly, have it copied and -so incur a debt of a thousand or twelve hundred francs. - -“Then I shall be impelled to give a concert that it may be heard; the -receipts will hardly equal half the expenditure, and I shall lose -money. I have not got it. My poor invalid will be without necessary -comforts, and my son’s expenses on board ship will not be met.” - -With a shudder of horror I threw aside my pen, saying: - -“To-morrow I shall have forgotten the symphony.” - -But no! Next night that obstinate motif returned more clearly than -before--I could even see it written out. I started up in feverish -agitation, humming it over and--again my decision held me back, and I -put the temptation aside. I fell asleep and next morning my symphony -was gone for ever. - -“Coward!” cries the young enthusiast, “brave all and write! Ruin -yourself! Dare everything! What right have you to push back into -oblivion a work of art that stretches out to you its piteous hands -crying for the light of day?” - -Ah, youth, youth! never hast thou suffered as I suffer, else wouldst -thou understand and be silent. - -Never was I backward, when I stood alone, to bear the brunt of my own -actions, never did I fail when my wife stood beside me, alert and -hopeful, to help me on, to face with me privation and suffering in the -cause of Art. But when she lay half dead, a doctor and three nurses in -attendance, when I knew that my musical venture _must_ end in disaster, -was I cowardly to hold back? Did I not do more honour to my divine -goddess, Music, in crediting her with sweet reasonableness than in -treating her as an all-devouring Moloch, greedy for human victims? - -If I have lately been carried away in writing my trilogy _The Childhood -of Christ_, it is that I no longer have these heavy calls upon me, and -also that, owing to my warm and generous reception in Germany, I can -count upon the performance of my works. - -Since writing this, M. Benazet of Baden has invited me several times to -conduct the annual festival there, and, with unequalled generosity, has -given me _carte blanche_ in the engagement and payment of my performers. - -Each year Germany receives me more cordially; I have been there four -times during the last eighteen months. - -So interested were the blind King of Hanover and his Antigone, the -Queen, in my rehearsals that they would appear at eight o’clock in the -morning and sometimes stay till noon, as the King said: - -“In order the better to get at the heart of my meaning and to grasp -more thoroughly my new ideas.” - -How warmly, too, he spoke of my _King Lear_--of the storm, the prison -scene, the fateful sorrows of sweet Cordelia. - -“I did not believe there was anything so beautiful in music,” he said, -“but you have enlightened me. And how you conduct? I cannot see you but -I feel it. I owe much to Providence,” he added, simply; “this love of -music is a compensation for all I have lost.” - -I never saw Henriette in that part, which was her best, but from her -recital of some scenes I can imagine what it must have been. - -On my last visit to Hanover the Queen asked me to include two pieces -from _Romeo_ in my programme, and the King desired me to return next -winter to superintend a theatrical performance of the same work, -allowing me to requisition artists from Brunswick, Hamburg, and even -Dresden. - -It was the same with the Grand Duke of Saxe-Weimar, who said, as I took -my leave: - -“M. Berlioz, shake hands with me and remember my theatre is always open -to you.” - -M. de Lüttichau, superintendent to the King of Saxony, has offered me -the post of director when it shall be vacant. - -Liszt strongly advises me to accept, but I cannot say. Time enough to -decide when the place is at my disposal. - -At present in Dresden they talk of reviving _Benvenuto Cellini_, which -Liszt has already given in Weimar, and of course I should have to go -and superintend the first performances. - -Blessed Germany, nursing mother of Art; generous England; Russia, my -saviour; good friends in France, and you--noble hearts of all nations -whom I have known--I thank and bless you all; your memory will be my -comfort to my latest hour. - -As for you, idiots and blind! You, my Guildenstern, Rosencrantz, Iago -and Osric! You, crawling worms of all kinds! Farewell, my friends--I -scorn you; may you be forgotten ere I die! - - _Note._--This was originally the ending of Berlioz’ _Mémoires_, but - his correspondence was voluminous after this date and he also added - some chapters to his Life. - - - _To_ AUGUSTE MOREL. - - “_June 1855._--You ask me to describe my _Te Deum_, which is rather - embarrassing. I can only say that its effect both on the performers - and myself was stupendous. Its immeasurable grandeur and breadth - struck everyone, and you can understand that the _Tibi omnes_ and - _Judex_ would have even more effect in a less sonorous hall than - the church of St Eustache. - - “I start for England on Friday. Wagner, who is directing the old - London Philharmonic (a post I was obliged to refuse, being engaged - by the other society) is buried beneath the vituperations of the - whole British press. He remains calm, for he says that _in fifty - years he will be master of the musical world_.” - - “_July._--“My trip to London, where, each time, I become more - comfortably established, was a brilliant success. - - “I mean to go back next winter after a prospective short tour - through Austria and Bohemia--at least if we are not at war with - Austria.” - - “I do nothing but correct proofs from morning to night, and see, - hear, know nothing.” - - “Meyerbeer ought to be pleased with the reception of the _Etoile du - Nord_ at Covent Garden. They threw him bouquets, as though he were - a prima-donna.” - - - _To_ RICHARD WAGNER. - - “_September 1855._--Your letter has given me real pleasure. You - do well to deplore my ignorance of German, and I have often told - myself that, as you say, this ignorance makes it impossible for me - to appreciate your writings. Expression melts away in translation, - no matter how daintily it is handled.” - - “In _true music_ there are accents that belong to special words, - separated they are spoilt.” - - “But what can I do? I find it so devilishly hard to learn - languages; a few words of English and Italian are all I can manage.” - - “So you are busy melting glaciers with your Nibelungen! It must - be glorious to write in the presence of great Mother Nature--a - joy withheld from me, for, instead of stimulating, the sea, the - mountain peaks, the glories of this beautiful earth absorb me so - completely that I have no room, no outlet for expression. I only - feel. I can but describe the moon from her reflection at the bottom - of a well.” - - “I am sorry I have no scores to send you, but you shall have the - _Te Deum_, _Childhood of Christ_ and _Lélio_ as soon as they come - out. I already have your _Lohengrin_ and should be delighted if you - would let me have _Tannhäuser_. - - “To meet as you suggest would be indeed a pleasure, but I dare not - think of it. Since Paris offers me but Dead Sea fruit I must of - necessity earn my bread by travelling for bread--not pleasure. - - “No matter. If we could but live another hundred years or so we - might perhaps understand the true inwardness of men and things. Old - Demiurge must laugh in his beard at the continual triumph of his - well-worn, oft-repeated farce. - - “But I will not speak ill of him, since he is a friend of yours - and you have become his champion. I am an impious wretch, full of - respect for the _Pies_. Forgive the atrocious pun! - - “_P.S._--Winged flights of many tinted thoughts crowd in upon me - and I long to send them, were there but time. - - “Write me down an ass until further orders.” - - - - -XXXIV - -1863--GATHERING TWILIGHT - - -Nearly ten years since I finished my memoir and during that time my -life has been as full of incident as ever. - -But since, for nothing on earth would I go through the labour of -writing again, I must just indicate the chief points. - -My work is over; Othello’s occupation’s gone. I no longer compose, -conduct, write either prose or verse. I have resigned my post of -musical critic and wish to do nothing more. I only read, think, fight -my deadly weariness of soul and suffer from the incurable neuralgia -that tortures me night and day. - -To my great surprise I have been elected a member of the Academy and my -relations with my colleagues are, throughout, pleasant and friendly. - -In 1855 Prince Napoleon desired me to arrange a great concert in -the Exhibition building for the day upon which the Emperor was to -distribute the prizes. - -I accepted on condition that I had no pecuniary responsibility, and M. -Ber, a generous and brave impresario, came forward and treated me most -liberally. - -These concerts (for there were several besides the official one) -brought me in eight thousand francs. - -In a raised gallery behind the throne I had placed twelve hundred -musicians, who were barely heard. Not that that mattered much on the -day of the ceremony, for I was stopped at the most interesting point of -the very first piece (the _Imperial Cantata_ which I had written for -the occasion) because the Prince had to make his speech and the music -was lasting too long!! - -However the next day the paying public was admitted and we took -seventy-five thousand francs. This time I brought the orchestra down -into the body of the hall, with fine effect. - -I sent to Brussels for an electrician I knew, who made me a five-wired -metronome so that by the single movement of my left hand, I could mark -time for the five deputy conductors placed at different points of the -enormous space. - -The _ensemble_ was marvellous. - -Since then most of the theatres have adopted electric metronomes for -the guidance of chorus-masters behind the scenes. The Opera alone -refused; but, when I undertook the supervision of _Alcestis_, I -introduced it. - -In these Palais de l’Industrie concerts the finest effects were -obtained from broad, grand, simple and somewhat slow movements, such -as the chorus from _Armida_, the _Tibi omnes_ of my _Te Deum_ and the -_Apotheosis_ of my _Funeral Symphony_. - - - _Letters to_ FERRAND and LOUIS BERLIOZ from - 1858 to 1863. - - - _To_ HUMBERT FERRAND. - - - “_November 1858._--I have nothing to tell you, I simply want to - write. I am ill, miserable (how many _I’s_ to each line!) Always - _I_ and _me_! One’s friends are for _oneself_, it ought to be - oneself for one’s friends. - - “My dejection melts away as I write; for pity’s sake let us write - oftener! These years of silence are insupportable. - - “Think how horribly quickly we are dying and how much good your - letters do me! - - “Last night I dreamt of music, this morning I recalled it all and - fell into one of those supernal ecstasies.... All the tears of my - soul poured forth as I listened to those divinely sonorous smiles - that radiate from the angels alone. Believe me, dear friend, the - being who could write such miracles of transcendent melody would be - more than mortal. - - “So sings great Michael as, erect upon the threshold of the - empyrean, he dreamily gazes down upon the worlds beneath. - - “Why, oh, why! have I not such an orchestra that I, too, could sing - this archangelic song! - - “Back to this lower earth! I am interrupted. Vulgar, commonplace, - stupid life! Oh! that I had a hundred cannon to fire all at once! - - “Good-bye. I feel better. Forgive me!” - - * * * * * - - “_6th July 1861._--_The Trojans_ has been accepted for the Opera, - but I cannot tell when they will produce it as Gounod and Gervaert - have to come first. But I am determined to worry myself no more; I - will not court Fortune, I will lie in bed and await her. - - “All the same, I could not resist a little uncourtly frankness when - the Empress asked me when she should hear _The Trojans_. - - “‘I do not know, madame, I begin to - think one must live a hundred and fifty years in order to get a - hearing at the Opera.’ - - “The annoying part is that, thanks to these delays, my work is - getting a sort of advance reputation that may injure it in the end. - - “I am getting on with a one-act opera for Baden, written round - Shakespeare’s _Much Ado About Nothing_. It is called _Beatrice and - Benedict_; I promise there shall not be much _Ado_ in the shape of - noise in it. Benazet, the king of Baden, wants it next year. - - “An American director has offered me an engagement in the - _Dis_united States; but his proposals are unavailing in view of my - unconquerable antipathy to his great nation, and my love of money - is not sufficiently great to prick me on. I do not know whether - your love for American _utilitarian_ manners and customs is any - more intense than my own. - - “In any case, it would be a great mistake to go far from Paris now; - at any moment they might want _The Trojans_.” - - * * * * * - - “_30th June 1862._--In my bereavement I can write but little. - - “My wife is dead--struck down in a moment by heart disease. The - frightful loneliness, after the wrench of this sudden parting, is - indescribable. Forgive me for not saying more.” - - - _To_ LOUIS BERLIOZ. - - “_January 1858._--Perhaps you have heard that a band of ruffians - surrounded the Emperor’s carriage as he went to the opera. They - threw a bomb that killed and wounded both men and horses, but, - by great good luck, did not touch the Emperor; and the charming - Empress did not lose her head for a moment. The courage and - presence of mind of both were perfect. - - “I have just had a long letter from M. von Bulow, Liszt’s - son-in-law, who married Mlle. Cosima. He tells me that he performed - my _Cellini_ overture with the greatest success at a Berlin - concert. He is one of the most fervent disciples of that crazy - school of the ‘Music of the Future,’ as they call it in Germany.” - - “They stick to it, and want me to be their leader and - standard-bearer, but I write nothing, say nothing, but just let - them go their way. Good sense will teach reasonable people the - truth.” - - * * * * * - - “_May 1858._--The foreign mail leaves to-morrow, and I must have a - chat with you, dear Louis. I long for news. Are you well? happy? - - “Here we are rather miserable. I am somewhat better, but my wife is - nearly always in bed and in pain.” - - * * * * * - - “_November 1860._--Dear Boy,--Here is a hundred-franc note. Be sure - to acknowledge it. I am thankful you are better. I, too, think my - disease is wearing itself out. I am certainly better since I gave - up remedies. Ideas for my little opera throng in so fast that I - cannot find time to write; sometimes I begin a new one before I - finish the old.” - - “You ask how I manage to crowd Shakespeare’s five acts into - one. I have taken only one subject from the play--the part in - which Beatrice and Benedict, who detest each other, are mutually - persuaded of each other’s love, whereby they are inspired with - true passion. The idea is really comic.” - - * * * * * - - “_14th February 1861._--It worries me to hear of your state of mind. - - “I cannot imagine what dreams have made your present life so - impossible. All I can say is that I was, at your age, far from - being as well off as you are. - - “Nay, more; I never dared to hope that, so soon after getting your - captain’s certificate, you would find a berth. - - “It is natural that you should wish to get on, but sometimes the - chances of one year bring more change into a man’s life than ten - years of strenuous endeavour. - - “How can I teach you patience? Your mania for marriage would make - me laugh were I not saddened by seeing you striving after the - heaviest of all fetters and after the sordid vexations of domestic - life--the most hopeless and exasperating of all lives. You are - twenty-six, and have eighteen hundred francs, with a prospect of - rapid promotion. When I married your mother I was thirty, and - had but three hundred francs in the world--lent me by my friend - Gounet--and the balance of my Prix de Rome scholarship. - - “Then there were your mother’s debts--nearly fourteen thousand - francs--which I paid off gradually, and the necessity of sending - money to her mother in England, besides which I had quarrelled with - my family, who cast me off, and was trying hard to make my first - small mark in the musical world. - - “Compare my hardships with your present discontent! Even now, do - you think it is very lively for me to be bound to this infernal - galley-oar of journalism? - - “I am so ill I can hardly hold my pen, yet I am forced to write for - my miserable hundred francs, the while my brain teems with work - and plans and designs that fall dead--thanks to my slavery. - - “You are well and strong, while I writhe in ceaseless, incurable - pain. Marie[25] thanks you for your kind messages. She, too, is - ill. Dear boy! you have at least a father, friend, devoted brother, - who loves you more than you seem to think, but who wishes that your - character were firmer, your mind more decided. - - * * * * * - - “_21st February 1861._--Wagner is turning our singers into goats. - It seems impossible to disentangle this _Tannhäuser_. I hear that - the last general rehearsal was awful, and only finished at one in - the morning. I suppose they will get through somehow. - - “Liszt is coming to prop up the charivari. - - “I have refused to write the critique, and have asked d’Ortigue to - do it. It is best for every reason, and besides, it will disappoint - them! Never did I have so many windmills to run a-tilt of as I have - this year. I am deluged with fools of every species, and am choking - with anger. - - * * * * * - - “_5th March 1861._--The _Tannhäuser_ scandal grows apace. Everyone - is raging. Even the Minister left the rehearsal in a towering - passion. The Emperor is far from pleased; yet there are still a few - honest enthusiasts left--even among French people. - - “Wagner is decidedly mad. He will die of apoplexy, just as Jullien - did last year. - - “Liszt never came after all. I think he expected a fiasco. They - have spent a hundred and sixty thousand francs over mounting the - opera. Well, we shall see what Friday brings forth.” - - * * * * * - - “_21st March 1861._--The second performance of _Tannhäuser_ was - worse than the first. No more laughter, the audience was too - furious, and, regardless of the presence of the Emperor and - Empress, hissed unmercifully. Coming out, Wagner was vituperated - as a scoundrel, an idiot, an impertinent wretch. If this goes on, - one day the performance will stop abruptly in the middle, and there - will be an end of the whole thing. - - “The press is unanimous in damning it.” - - * * * * * - - “_18th April 1861._--Write, dear Louis, if you can, without the - cruel knife-thrusts you gave me in your last letter. - - “I am worse than usual to-day, and have not strength to begin - my article. I had an ovation at the Conservatoire after the - performance of _Faust_. I dined with the Emperor a week ago, and - exchanged a few words with him. I was magnificently bored.” - - * * * * * - - “_2nd June 1861._--You are worried, and I can do nothing for - you. Alexis is trying to find you a position in Paris, but is - unsuccessful. I am as inefficient as he is. You alone can command - your fate. They wish me to bring out _Alcestis_ at the Opera as I - did _Orpheus_ at the Théâtre Lyrique, and offer me full author’s - rights, but I have refused for various reasons. - - “They believe that, for money, artists will stultify their - consciences; I mean to prove that their belief is false.[26] - - “My obstinacy has offended many. Instead of amusing themselves by - spoiling Gluck’s _chef d’œuvre_, I wish they would spend their - money over mounting _The Trojans_. But of course they won’t, since - it is the obvious thing to do! Liszt has conquered the Emperor; he - played at Court last week, and has been given the Legion of Honour. - - “Ah, if one only plays the piano!” - - * * * * * - - “_28th October 1861._--Dear Louis,--Did I not know what a terrible - effect disappointment has on even the best characters, I should - really feel inclined to let you have some home truths. You have - wounded me mortally with a deliberate calmness that shows you were - master of your language. But I can forgive, for you are not a bad - son after all. - - “You go too far. Is it my fault that I am not rich, that I could - not let you live idly in Paris with a wife and children? Is there - a shadow of justice in reproaching me as you do? For nearly three - months you keep silence, then comes this ironical letter! My poor - dear boy, it is not right. - - “Don’t worry about your debt to the tailor; send me the bill and I - will pay him. - - “You ask me to beg a post for you. From whom? You know there never - was a more awkward man than I at asking favours. - - “Good-bye, dear son, dear friend, dear unlucky boy--unlucky by your - own fault, not by mine.” - - * * * * * - - “_17th June 1862._--You have received my letter and telegram,[27] - but I write to ask whether you can come to me in Baden on the - 6th or 7th August, as I know you would enjoy hearing the last - rehearsals and first performance of my opera. In my leisure moments - you would be my companion, you would see my friends, we should be - together. - - “Could you leave your ship so near its date for sailing? - - “I am not sure how much money I can send you. The expenses of that - sad ceremony--the transference from St Germain--will be great. - - “I am rather afraid, too, of trusting you in a gambling town, but - if you will give me your word of honour not to stake a single - florin I will trust you. - - “My mother-in-law came back yesterday just after I had left home - to find only her daughter’s body. She is nearly frantic and is - constantly watched by a friend who came to our help. Think of the - anguish! Write soon, my dear, dear boy.” - - * * * * * - - “BADEN, _10th August 1862_.--_Beatrice_ was applauded from - end to end, and I was recalled more times than I could count. My - friends were delighted, but I was quite unmoved, for it was one of - my days of excruciating pain and nothing seemed to matter. - - “To-day I am better and can enjoy their congratulations. - - “You will be pleased too, but why have you left me so long without - a letter? Why do they keep transferring you from boat to boat? Do - not write here again as I soon go back to Paris. Now I am called - and must go and thank my radiant singers.” - - - _To_ H. FERRAND. - - “PARIS, _21st August 1862_.--I am just home from Baden, - where _Beatrice_ obtained a real triumph. - - “I always fly to you, be my news good or evil, I am so sure of your - loving interest. Would you had been there! it would have recalled - the night of the _Childhood of Christ_. - - “Foes and conspirators stayed in Paris, artists and authors - journeyed to Baden to be present; Madame Charton-Demeur was - perfect, both as singer and actress. - - “But can you believe that my neuralgia was too bad that day for me - to take interest in anything? I took my place at the conductor’s - desk, before that cosmopolitan audience, to direct an opera of - which I had written both words and music, absolutely, deadly - impassible. Whereby I conducted better than usual. I was much more - nervous at the second performance. - - “Benazet, who always does things royally, spent outrageously in - every department. He has splendidly inaugurated the new theatre - and has created a furore. They want to give _Beatrice_ at the - Opera Comique, but there is no one to do the heroine since Madame - Charton-Demeur is going to America. - - “You would laugh at the critiques. People are finding out that I - have melody; that I can be gay--in fact, really comic; that I am - not _noisy_, which is rather obvious, since the heavy instruments - are conspicuous by their absence. - - “How much patience I should need were I not so completely - indifferent. Dear friend, I suffer a perfect martyrdom daily from - four in the morning till four in the afternoon. What is to become - of me? I do not tell you this to make you patient under your own - afflictions--my woes are no compensation to you. - - “I simply cry unto you as one does to those who love and are loved. - Adieu! Adieu!” - - * * * * * - - “_26th August 1862._--How I should love to come to you, as Madame - Ferrand wishes! But I have much to do here owing to my wife’s - death, and Louis has resigned his commission and is stranded. - Besides, I am busy enlarging my _Beatrice_. - - “I am trying to cut or untie all the bonds that hold me to Art, - that I may be able to say to Death, ‘When thou wilt.’ - - “I dare not complain when I think of what you bear. - - “Are sufferings like ours the inevitable result of our - organisation? Must we be punished for having worshipped the - Beautiful throughout our lives? Probably. - - “We have drunk too deeply of the enchanted cup; we have pursued our - ideals too far. - - “Still, dear friend, you have a devoted wife to help you to bear - your cross. You know nothing of the dread duet beating, night - and day, into your brain--the joint voices of world-weariness and - isolation! - - “God grant you never may! It is saddening music. - - “Good-bye! My gathering tears would make me write words that would - grieve you yet more. Again, good-bye!” - - * * * * * - - “_3rd March 1863._--Your suppositions with regard to my depression - are fortunately wrong; Louis has certainly worried me terribly, but - I have forgiven him; he has found a ship and is now in Mexico. - - “No; my trouble was Love. A love unsought that met me smiling, that - I did not seek, that I even fought against for awhile. - - “But my loneliness, my unceasing yearning for affection, conquered - me; first I let myself be loved, then I more than loved in return, - and at last a separation became inevitable--a separation absolute - as death. That is all. I am slowly recovering, but health such as - this is sad. I will say no more.... - - “I am glad my _Beatrice_ pleases you. I am going to Weimar, where - it is now in rehearsal, to conduct a few performances in April, - then I shall come back to this wilderness--Paris. - - “Pray, dear friend, that my apathy may become complete, for - otherwise I shall have a hard time while _The Trojans_ is in - rehearsal. - - “Good-bye; when I see your dear writing on my desk it calms me for - the day. Never forget that.” - - - - -XXXV - -THE TROJANS - - -By this time (1863) I had finished the dramatic work on which I had -been engaged. Four years earlier, being in Weimar with Liszt’s devoted -friend, the Princess of Sayn-Wittgenstein--a woman whose noble heart -and mind had often been my comfort in my darkest hours--I was drawn on -to speak of my love of Virgil and of my wish to compose a grand opera -in Shakespearian style on the second and fourth books of the _Æneid_. I -added that I knew too well the misery and worry that would be my fate -to dare to embark on such a project. - -Said the Princess: - -“Your passion for Shakespeare and love for the classics would indeed -produce a work both grand and original. You must do it.” - -As I demurred, she continued: - -“Listen! If you draw back from fear of petty troubles, if you are so -weak as not to suffer in the cause of Cassandra and Dido, come here no -more. I will never see you again!” - -Once back in Paris I began the poem of _The Trojans_. Then I started on -the score, and at the end of three years and a half it was finished. As -I polished and repolished it I read it to many of my friends, profiting -by their criticism; then I wrote to the Emperor begging him to read it -and, should he judge it suitable, to use his influence to secure it a -hearing at the Opera. - -However, M. de Morny dissuaded me from sending my letter, and when -finally _The Trojans_ saw the footlights the Emperor was not even -present. - -After many cruel disappointments with regard to the opera,[28] I at -last succumbed to the persuasion of M. Carvalho and allowed him to set -_The Trojans at Carthage_ (the second section of the opera) at the -Théâtre Lyrique. - -Although he received a Government subsidy of a hundred thousand francs -a year, neither his theatre, singers, chorus, nor orchestra was equal -to the task. Both he and I made great sacrifices, and I, out of my -small income, paid some extra musicians and cut up my orchestration to -bring it within his limits. - -Madame Charton-Demeur, the only possible woman for Dido, most -generously accepted fees far below those offered her in Madrid, -but despite everything the production was incomplete; indeed, the -sceneshifters made such a muddle of the storm scene that we were -obliged to suppress it entirely. - -As I said before, if I am to superintend a really fine representation -I must have an absolutely free hand, and the good-will of every one -around, otherwise I get worn out with storming at opposition, and end -by resigning and letting everything go to the devil as it will. - -I cannot describe what Carvalho[29] made me suffer in demanding cuts -that he deemed necessary. When he dared ask no more he worked upon me -through friends, whose niggling, peddling criticism drove me nearly -mad. Said one: - -“How about your rhapsodist with the four-stringed lyre? I daresay you -are right as to archæology, but----” - -“Well?” - -“It is rather dangerous; people are certain to laugh.” - -“H’m! laughable is it that an antique lyre should have only four notes?” - -Another: - -“There is a risky word in your prologue that I fairly tremble over.” - -“What’s that?” - -“_Triomphaux._” - -“Well, why not? Is not it the plural of _triomphal_ just as _chevaux_ -is of _cheval_?” - -“Yes, but it is not much used.” - -“Oh, confound it all! If, in an epic poem, I were to use words suited -to vaudevilles and variety shows, I should not have much choice of -language.” - -“Well, people will certainly laugh.” - -“Ha! ha! triomphaux! It is really almost as funny as Molière’s _tarte à -la crême_. Ha! ha!” - -A third: - -“I say! You really must _not_ let Æneas come on in a helmet.” - -“And why not?” - -“Why, Mangin, the gutter pencil-seller, wears one. Certainly his is a -mediæval one, but that doesn’t matter. The gallery cads will certainly -howl ‘Hallo! there’s Mangin!’ - -“I see--a Trojan hero may not wear a helmet, lest he should be like -Mangin!” - -Number four: - -“Old fellow, do something to please me!” - -“What is it now?” - -“Suppress Mercury. Those wings on his head and his heels are really -too comical. No one ever saw anybody with wings anywhere but on their -shoulders.” - -“Ah, you have seen people with wings on their shoulders? I have not, -but I can quite understand that wings in unexpected places are awkward. -One does not often meet Mercury strolling about the streets of Paris.” - -Can any one conceive what these crass idiots made me endure? In -addition, I had to fight the musical ideas of Carvalho, who could not -believe that, after studying opera for forty years, I knew just a -little about it. - -The actors alone loyally abstained from worrying me, for which -forbearance I give them all most hearty thanks. - -The first performance took place on the 4th November 1863. There was -no hostile demonstration except the hissing of one man, and he kept on -regularly up to the tenth night. Five papers said everything insulting -that they could think of, but, on the other hand, fifty articles -of admiring criticism--among them those of my friends, Gasperini, -d’Ortigue, L. Kreutzer, and Damcke--filled me with a joyous pride to -which I had too long been a stranger. - -I also received many appreciative letters, and was frequently stopped -in the street by strangers who begged to shake hands with the author of -_The Trojans_. - -Were these not compensations for the diatribes of my foes? In spite of -the cutting and polishing (I called it mutilation) that my _Trojans_ -suffered at the hands of Carvalho, it only ran twenty-one nights. The -receipts did not reach his expectations; he cancelled the engagement of -Madame Charton-Demeur, who left for Madrid, and to my great comfort my -work disappeared from the play-bills. - -Nevertheless, being both author and composer, my royalties for those -twenty-one performances and the sale of the piano score in Paris and -London amounted--to my unspeakable joy--to about the annual income I -derived from the _Journal des Débats_, and I was, therefore, able to -resign my post as critic. - -Freedom, after thirty years of slavery! No more articles to concoct, -no more platitudes to excuse, no more commonplaces to extol, no more -righteous wrath to bottle up, no more lies, no more farces, no more -cowardly compromises! Free! I need never more set foot in theatre! -Gloria in excelsis! Thanks to _The Trojans_ the wretched quill-driver -is free!! - - * * * * * - -My _Beatrice_, having been a success at Baden in August 1862, was -translated into German, and, at the request of the Grand Duchess of -Saxe-Weimar, was given at Weimar in April 1863. Their Serene Highnesses -desired me to direct the two first performances, and, as usual, -overwhelmed me with kindness. - -So did the Prince of Hohenzollern-Hechingen, who sent his Kapellmeister -to invite me to conduct a concert at Löwenberg, his present residence. - -He told me that his orchestra knew all my symphonies, and wished for a -programme drawn exclusively from my own works. - -“Your Highness,” I said, “since your orchestra knows all, be pleased to -choose for yourself. I will conduct whatever you wish.” - -He therefore chose _King Lear_, the festival and love-scene from -_Romeo_, the _Carnaval Romain_ overture, and _Harold in Italy_. As he -had no harpist, Madame Pohl of Weimar, with her husband, was invited. - -The Prince had greatly changed since my visit in 1842; he was a martyr -to gout, and was, after all, unable to be present at the concert he had -planned. He was keenly disappointed, for, said he, “You are not a mere -conductor; you are the orchestra itself; it is hard that I cannot reap -the benefit of your stay here.” - -He has built a splendid music-room in the castle, with a musical -library; the orchestra is composed of about fifty _musical_ musicians, -and their conductor, M. Seifriz, is both patient and talented. They -are not worried with lesson-giving, church or theatre work, but belong -exclusively to the Prince. - -My rooms were close to the concert hall, and the first afternoon, at -four, a servant came to say: - -“Monsieur, the orchestra awaits you.” - -There I found the forty-five silent artists, instruments in hand and -all in tune!! - -They rose courteously to receive me, _King Lear_ was on the desk, -I raised my baton and everything went with spirit, smoothness, and -precision, so that--not having heard the piece for ten or twelve -years--I said to myself in amazement: “It is tremendous! Can I really -have written it?” - -The rest was just as good, and I said to the players: - -“Gentlemen, to rehearse with you is simply a farce; I have not a single -objection to make.” - -The Kapellmeister played the viola solo of _Harold_ perfectly (in the -other pieces he returned to his violin), and I can truly say that never -have I heard it more perfectly done. - -And ah! how they sang the _adagio_ of _Romeo_! We were transported to -Verona, Löwenberg was gone. At the end Seifriz rose and, after waiting -a moment to conquer his emotion, cried in French: “There is nothing -finer in music!” - -Then the orchestra burst into storms of applause, and I bit my lip.... -Messengers passed constantly back and forth to the poor Prince in his -bed to report progress, but nothing consoled him for his absence. -Every few minutes during dinner he would either send for me or a big, -powdered lacquey would bring me a pencilled note on a silver salver. -Sometimes I would spend half an hour at his bedside and listen to his -praises. He knows all that I have written, both prose and music. - -On the day of the concert a brilliant audience filled the hall; by -their enthusiasm one could see that my music was an old friend. After -the _Pilgrim’s March_ an officer came on to the platform and pinned on -my coat the cross of Hohenzollern. The secret had been so well guarded -that I had not the slightest idea of such an honour. - -But it pleased me so greatly that, just for my own satisfaction, and -without thought of the public, I played the orgie from _Harold_ in my -very own style--furiously--so that it made me grind my teeth. - -I might say much more of this charming interlude of my life, but I -must only mention the exquisite cordiality of the Prince’s circle and -particularly of the family of Colonel Broderotti, whose perfect French -was a real relief to me, since I dislike to hear my own language badly -spoken yet know no German. As I took leave of the Prince he embraced -me, saying: - -“You are going to Paris, my dear Berlioz, where many love you. Tell -them I love them for it.” - -But I must go back to _Beatrice_. - -To my mind it is one of the liveliest and most original things I have -ever done, although it is difficult--especially in the men’s parts. -Unlike _The Trojans_ it is inexpensive to mount; but they will take -precious care not to have it in Paris; they are right, it is not -Parisian music at all. With his usual generosity, M. Benazet paid me -four thousand francs for the music and the same for the words--eight -thousand in all, and gave me another thousand to conduct it the -following year. - -The Maidens’ duet became very popular in Germany and I remember making -the Grand Duke laugh heartily about it one night at supper. He had been -catechising me on my life in Paris and my revelations anent our musical -world sadly disillusioned him. - -“How, when and where did you write that lovely duet?” he asked, “surely -by moonlight in some romantic spot----” - -“Sir,” I replied, “it was one of those scenes that artists mark and -store up for future use and which come forth when needed, no matter -amid what surroundings. I sketched it in at the Institute during an -oration of one of my colleagues.” - -“Ha! ha!” laughed he, “that speaks well for the orator. His eloquence -must have been great.” - -Later on it was performed at one of our Conservatoire concerts and -made an unheard-of sensation. Even my faithful hissers dared not -uplift their voices. Mesdames Viardot and Vanderheufel-Duprez sang it -deliciously, and the marvellous orchestra was dainty and graceful. -It was one of those performances one sometimes hears--in dreams. The -Conservatoire Society, directed by my friend, Georges Hainl, was no -longer inimical to me and proposed to give excerpts from my scores -occasionally. I have now presented it with my whole musical library, -with the exception of the operas; it ought some day to be fairly -valuable and it could not be in better hands. - -I must not forget to mention the Strasburg festival, where I conducted -my _Childhood of Christ_ in a vast building seating six thousand -people. I had five hundred performers, and to my surprise, this -work--written almost throughout in a quiet, tender vein--made a -tremendous impression, the mystic, unaccompanied chorus, “O my soul!” -even causing tears. - -Ah! how happy am I when my audience weeps! - -I have heard since that many of my works have been given in America, -Russia and Germany. - -So much the better! Could I but live a hundred and forty years my -musical life would become distinctly interesting. - - * * * * * - -I had married again--_it was my duty_, and after eight years my wife -died suddenly of heart disease. Some time after her burial in the great -cemetery at Montmartre, my dear friend, Edouard Alexandre (the organ -builder, whose goodness to me has been unbounded), thinking her grave -too humble, made me a present of a plot of ground _in perpetuity_. -There a vault was built and I was obliged to be present at the -re-interment. It was a heart-rending scene and quite broke me down; -I seemed to have touched the lowest depths of misery, but this was -nothing to what followed soon after. - -I was officially notified that the small cemetery at Montmartre, where -Henriette lay, was to be closed and that I must remove her dear body. I -gave the necessary orders and one gloomy morning set out alone for the -deserted burial-ground. A municipal officer awaited me and as I came up -a sexton jumped down into the open grave. The ten years buried coffin -was still intact with the exception of the cover, decayed by damp, and -the man, instead of lifting it to the surface, pulled at the rotten -boards, which tearing asunder with a hideous noise, left the remains -exposed. - -Stooping, he took in his hands that fleshless head, discrowned and -gaunt, the head of poor Ophelia and placed it in the new coffin lying -on the brink of the grave--alas! alas! Again he stooped and raised the -headless trunk, a black repulsive mass in its discoloured shroud--it -fell with a dull, hopeless sound into its place. The officer a few -paces off, stood watching. Seeing me leaning against a cypress tree he -cried: - -“Come nearer, M. Berlioz, come nearer.” - -And, to add a grotesque weirdness to this horrible spectacle he added, -misusing a word: - -“Ah, poor _inhumanity_!” - -In a few moments we followed the hearse down the hill to the great -cemetery, where the new vault yawned before us. Henriette was laid -within and there those dear dead women await me. - - * * * * * - -I am nearly sixty-one; past hope, past visions, past high thoughts; my -son is far away; I am alone; my scorn for the dishonesty and imbecility -of men, my hatred of their insane malignity are at their height; and -every day I say again to Death: - -“When thou wilt!” - -Why does he tarry? - - - - -XXXVI - -ESTELLE ONCE MORE - - - _To_ M. and Mme MASSART. - - “PARIS, _August 1864_.--Yes, really and truly! Marshal - Vaillant has written a charming letter to tell me that the Emperor - has appointed us officers of the Legion of Honour[30]--yes, madame, - both you and me. So arrange about changing your ribbon, etc. - - “You would not go and dine with the Minister. Sixty of us were - there, including His Excellency’s dog, who drank coffee out of his - master’s cup. - - “A great author, M. Mérimée, said to me: - - “‘You ought to have been made an - officer long ago, which shows that I am not in the Ministry.’ - - “You see I am a little better to-day and therefore more idiotic - than usual; I hope this will find you the same. - - “Paris is _en fête_ and you are not here! The Villerville beach - must be very dismal, how can you stay on there? - - “Massart goes shooting--he kills sea-gulls or perhaps an occasional - sperm-whale--God only knows how you kill time! You have deserted - your piano and I would not mind betting that when you come home you - will hardly be able to play that easiest of scales--B natural major! - - “Shall I come and see you? You may safely say ‘yes’ for I shall - not come. Forgive me! I am getting serious again, the pain is - beginning and I most go to bed. Heartiest greetings to you both.” - - - _To_ A. MOREL. - - “_August 1864._--Thank you for your cordial letter. The officer’s - cross and Vaillant’s letter pleased me--both for my friends’ sake - and my enemies’. How _can_ you keep any illusions about music in - France? Everything is dead except stupidity. - - “I am almost alone. Louis has gone back to St Nazaire and all my - friends are scattered except Heller, whom I see sometimes. We dine - together at Asnières and are about as lively as owls; I read and - re-read; in the evenings I stroll past the theatres in order to - enjoy the pleasure of not going in. Yesterday I found a comfortable - seat on a tomb in Montmartre cemetery and slept for two hours. - - “Sometimes I go and see Madame Erard at Passy, where I am welcomed - with open arms; I relish having no articles to write and being - thoroughly lazy. - - “Paris gets daily more beautiful; it is a pleasure to watch her - blossoming out. - - “I hear there is to be a mighty festival at Carlsruhe; Liszt has - gone there from Rome and they are going to discourse ear-splitting - music. It is the pow-wow of young Germany presided over by Hans von - Bulow.” - -Rarely have I suffered from _ennui_ so terribly as I did during the -beginning of September 1864. - -My friends were away except Stephen Heller, the delicate wit and -learned musician, who has written so much lovely music for the piano -and whose gentle melancholy and devotion to the true deities of Art -made him to me such a grateful companion. My son was home from Mexico, -he, too, was not lively and we often pooled our gloom and dined -together. - -One day, after dinner at Asnières, we walked beside the river and -discussed Shakespeare and Beethoven, my son taking part in the -Shakespeare portion, since, unfortunately, he was then unacquainted -with Beethoven. We finally agreed that it was worth while living in -order to worship the Beautiful, and if we could not annihilate all that -is inimical to it we must be content to despise the commonplace and -recognise it as little as possible. The sun was setting; we sat on the -river-bank opposite the isle of Neuilly, and, as we watched the wayward -wheeling of the swallows over the water, I suddenly remembered where I -was. - -I looked at my son--I thought of his mother. - -Once more, in spirit, I lay half asleep in the snow as I had done -in that very spot thirty-six years before, during those frenzied -wanderings around Paris. - -Once again I recalled Hamlet’s cold remark over the Ophelia he loved no -longer, “What! the fair Ophelia?” - -“Long ago,” I said to my companion, “one winter’s day, I was nearly -drowned here trying to cross the Seine on the ice. I had walked -aimlessly since early morning----” Louis sighed. - -The following week he left me, and a great yearning for Vienne, -Grenoble, above all, Meylan, came over me. I wished to see my nieces -and--one other woman, if I could get her address. - -I left Paris. My brother-in-law, Suat, and his two daughters met me -with joy. But my joy was chastened, for on entering their drawing-room -the portrait of my dear Adèle--now four years dead--faced me. It was -a terrible blow, and my nieces looked on in sorrowful amazement at my -grief. - -Daily familiarity with the room, its furniture, the portrait, had -already softened their loss to them; to me all was fresh. - -Dear tender-hearted Adèle! my willing slave, my indulgent guardian. How -well I remember one day, after I came from Italy, that it rained in -torrents, and I said: - -“Adèle, come for a walk.” - -“Certainly, dear boy,” she said, promptly; “wait till I get my -galoshes.” - -“Really,” said my elder sister, “you must be quite crazy to want to -paddle about the fields in such weather.” - -But, despite mockery and jokes, we took a big umbrella and arm-in-arm -walked about six miles without speaking a word. We loved each other. - -After spending a peaceful fortnight with my brother-in-law, during -which he got me Madame F.’s address in Lyons, I could no longer resist -a pilgrimage to St Eynard, such as I had made sixteen years before. - -There soared the ancient rock, there stood the small white house ... -to-day, her old home; to-morrow, perhaps, Estelle herself! Sixteen -years had passed as one night, all was unchanged. The little shady -path, the old tower, the leafy vines, the glorious view over the -valley. Till then I had kept calm, only murmuring, “Estelle! Estelle! -Estelle!” but now, overcome with emotion, I fell prone on my face, -hearing with each heart-beat the fatal words: - -“Past! Past! Gone for ever!” - -I arose, and chipping from the tower a morsel of stone that she -perchance may have touched, went on my way. - -There is the rock whereon I laid my posy of pink peas--but where are -the flowers? Gone, or perhaps only past their flowering stage. Here is -the cherry tree. How grown! - -I break off a fragment of bark and, passing my arms around the trunk, -press it passionately to my breast. - -Dear tree, you remember her! You understand! - -At the avenue gate I resolved to go up to the house; perhaps the new -owners would not be too suspicious of me. In the garden I met an old -lady who seemed startled at the sight of a stranger. - -“Pardon me, madame,” I stammered, “might I go through your garden--in -memory of--old friends?” - -“Certainly, monsieur, go where you will.” - -Further on a girl was on a ladder gathering pears. I bowed and passed -on, pushing my way through the bushes, now so neglected, and cutting a -branch of syringa to hide next my heart. As I came to the open door, -I paused on the threshold to look in. The maiden of the pear tree, no -doubt warned by her mother, came forward and courteously asked me in. - -That little room, looking over the wide valley, that _she_ had so -proudly shown me when I was twelve years old--the same furniture, the -same----I tore my handkerchief with my teeth. The girl watched me -uneasily. - -“Do not mind me, mademoiselle. All is so strange--I have not--been here -for forty-nine years!” - -And, bursting into tears, I fled. - -What could those ladies have thought of that strange scene, to which -they never got a key? - -Reader, do I repeat myself? In sooth it is always so; remembrance, -regret, a weary soul clutching at the past, fighting despairingly to -retain the flying present. Always this useless struggle against time, -always this wild desire to realise the impossible, always this frantic -thirst for perfect love! How can I help repeating myself? The sea -repeats itself; are not all its waves akin? - - * * * * * - -That night I reached Lyons and spent a sleepless night thinking of my -meeting with Madame F. - -I decided to go at noon, and to send the following letter to prepare -her for her visitor: - - “MADAME,--I have just come from Meylan, from my second - pilgrimage to the hallowed haunts of my childhood’s dreams. It has - been even more painful than that of sixteen years ago, after which - I wrote to you at Vif. This time I ask for more; I dare to beg you - to see me. I can control myself; you need fear no transports from a - heart out-worn and crushed by the pressure of cruel Fate. Give me - but a few moments! Let me see you, I implore. - -“_23rd September 1864._ HECTOR BERLIOZ.” - - -I could not wait till noon. At half-past eleven I rang; gave her -maid my card and the letter. She was at home. I ought only to have -sent up the letter, but I was past knowing what I was doing. Without -hesitation she came to meet me. I at once recognised her graceful yet -stately air--the step of a goddess. But, ah! how changed her face! Her -complexion darkened, her hair silvered. - -Yet my heart went out to my idol as though she had been in all the -freshness of her youthful beauty. - -Holding my note, she led the way to her drawing-room. My emotions -choked me, I was dumb; with gentle dignity she began: - -“We are old acquaintances, M. Berlioz----” Silence. - -“We were but children then----” Still silence. - -Feeble as the cry of a drowning man came my halting voice: - -“My letter--madame--explains this visit; would you but read it----” - -[Illustration: GRENOBLE] - -She opened and read it, then laid it on the chimney-piece. - -“Then you have been in Meylan; by chance, no doubt?” - -“Oh, madame, can you believe it needed chance to take me there? For how -long had I not yearned to see it once more?” - -Again silence. - -“Your life has been a stirring one, M. Berlioz.” - -“How do you know, madame?” - -“I have read your biography--by Méry, I think. I bought it some years -ago.” - -“Pray, do not think that my friend Méry, an artist and a clever man, is -guilty of such a tissue of fables and nonsense as that! I believe I can -guess the real author. But I shall soon have a true biography ready, -one I have written myself.” - -“And you write so well!” - -“Nay, madame, I do not mean to praise the style, but simply to say that -at least it will be true. In it, without naming you, I have been able -to tell all my feeling for you without restraint.” - -Silence. - -“I have also heard of you,” went on Madame F., “from a friend of yours -who married my husband’s niece.” - -“Yes, it is he whom I asked to tell me the fate of a letter I wrote you -sixteen years ago. I longed to know whether you received it. I never -saw him again, and now he is dead.” - -Silence. - -“My life has been very quiet, very sad. I lost some of my children, and -my husband died while the others were very young. I did my best alone -to bring them up well.” - -Silence. - -“I am indeed grateful, M. Berlioz, for the kind thoughts you have kept -of me.” - -At her gentle words my heart beat yet more violently. - -With hungry eyes I gazed and gazed, clothing her once more in the -beauty of long past days. At length I said: - -“Madame, give me your hand.” - -Pressing it to my lips, my heart turned to water within me, the world -sank away, a long and blessed silence brooded over us. - -“Dare I hope,” I murmured, “that I may write to you? That, at long -distant intervals, I may even see you?” - -“Oh, certainly; but I am leaving Lyons soon to live with my son who, -after his marriage, is to settle in Geneva.” - -I rose, not daring to stay longer. She came with me to the door, -saying, “Good-bye, M. Berlioz, good-bye. I am more grateful than I can -tell you for your long and sweet memory of me.” - -Once more I bent over her hand, pressing it to my burning forehead, -then tore myself away but only to wander, aimlessly and feverishly, -near her dwelling. - -As I watched the swirling Rhone rush under the Pont Morand, M. -Strakosch, brother-in-law of Adelina Patti, came up to me. - -“You!” he cried, “Good-luck! Adelina will be so glad to see you. She is -singing to-morrow in the _Barbiere_; will you have a box?” - -“Many thanks, I may be leaving this evening.” - -“Well, anyway come to dinner with us to-day. You know how much pleasure -it gives us.” - -“I dare not promise--It depends--I am not very well--Where are you -staying?” - -“Grand Hotel.” - -“So am I. Well, if I am not too unsociable this evening I will come. -But don’t wait.” - -I suddenly thought of an excuse to see Madame F. once more. If she -would go to the theatre I would stay also, if she would allow me the -honour of escorting her. If she would not I would leave at once. - -I hurried round to her house. She was out but I left a message with her -maid and then went off to pass a day of torturing uncertainty. Hour -after hour went by and no answer came, time after time I returned to -find the house shut up and to get no answer to my ring. - -Could it be that she had told her people not to admit me? - -What would become of me! Where should I go! What do! There seemed no -refuge for me but the Rhone! - -Finally in one last despairing attempt I heard ladies’ voices above me -on the stairs and saw her coming down, a note in her hand. - -“Oh, M. Berlioz, I am so sorry I have only just got your message and -here is my answer. Unfortunately I shall be away from home to-morrow; a -thousand pardons for the inconvenience I have caused you.” - -She was putting the letter in her pocket when I cried: - -“Oh, please let me have it!” - -“It is hardly worth while----” - -“I beg of you, since it was meant for me.” - -She gave it me and for the first time I saw her writing. - -“Then I shall see you no more?” - -“Not if you leave to-night. May your journey be pleasant.” - -Pressing my hand, she and her two friends passed on, leaving me--can it -be believed?--almost happy. - -I had seen, had spoken to her again, I had a letter from her in which -she sent me her _kindest regards_. - -With my unhoped-for treasure I went back to the hotel to dine with -Mademoiselle Patti. - -As I entered her _salon_ the charming diva clapped her hands joyously -and danced up to me, holding up her lovely forehead for my accustomed -kiss. - -During dinner she spoilt me with her dainty coaxing attentions. - -“There is something wrong with you,” she said, “what are you thinking -of? I can’t have you miserable.” - -They came with me to the station, she, with a friend and Strakosch, and -they were allowed to go on to the platform. Adelina, dear child, clung -to me until the signal was given, then the winsome creature flung both -arms round my neck and kissed me, crying gaily: - -“Good-bye, good-bye just for a week. We shall be in Paris on Tuesday -and you must come and see us on Thursday.” - -Why could I not claim such affection from Madame F. and mere politeness -from Mademoiselle Patti? - -Adelina was like a brilliant, diamond-eyed humming-bird fluttering -round me; I was enchanted but not touched. Though I liked her greatly, -I did not _love_ her. - -My soul was given to that old, sad, unsought after woman, hers it has -always been and will be to my dying day. - -Balzac and even Shakespeare--master painters of passions--knew nothing -of love like this. Tom Moore alone has imagined and voiced it in-- - - “Believe me if all those endearing young charms.” - -How often, through that long night journey, did I repeat: - -“Idiot! why did you leave? You might have seen her again to-morrow.” -True, but the fear of being troublesome restrained me and what could I -have done in Lyons during the hours we were apart? it would have been -but torture. - -After a few miserable days of indecision in Paris I wrote the following -letter, which shows my deplorable state and her beautiful calm. - -How much worse off am I now that I cannot even write to her! To enjoy -that romantic friendship to the end would have been too great a -blessing. Wounded, torn, alone, unsatisfied must I totter to my grave! - - “PARIS, _27th September 1864_.--Madame! A thousand - blessings on you for your gentle reception of me! Few women could - have done as much; yet since our meeting, I suffer most cruelly. It - is useless to repeat to myself that you could not have done more - than you have; my wounded heart bleeds on unstaunched. I ask, why? - why? and my only answer is: because I saw you so little; because I - said but a tithe of all I wished; because we parted as if for ever. - - “Yet I held your hand, I pressed it to my lips--to my forehead and - kept back my tears as I had promised. - - “And now the inexorable thirst for another word from you has - conquered me; in pity grant it! - - “Think! for forty-five years I have loved you; you are my - childhood’s dream that has weathered all the storms of my most - stormy life. It _must_ be true--this love of a life-time--could it, - else, master me as it still does? - - “Do not take me for an eccentric, a plaything of my own - imagination; I am but a man of intense sensibility, of eternal - constancy and of overwhelmingly strong affections. I loved you, I - love you still, I shall always love you, although I am sixty-one - and for me the world has no more illusions. - - “Grant me, I pray you, not as a nurse, from a sense of duty to her - sick patient, but as a noble woman stooping to heal wounds she has - unwittingly given--grant me those three things that, alone, can - give me peace: permission to write sometimes, your undertaking to - reply and a promise that once a year, at least, you will allow me - to visit you. - - “If I called without your permission I might arrive at the wrong - time, therefore I shall not venture near you unless you say: ‘Come.’ - - “Surely there is nothing strange or wrong in this? Could there be - a purer or more beautiful bond? Who shall say us nay? Still, I - must own that it would be painful to meet you only amongst others, - therefore if you bid me come it will be that we may talk as we did - last Friday when, so deeply was I moved, that I could not savour - the sweet sad charm by reason of my terror lest emotion should get - beyond control. Oh, madame! madame! I have but one end in life--to - gain your affection! - - “Give me but leave to try! I will be so humble, so restrained; - my letters shall be as infrequent as you wish lest they become a - burden to you; five lines only from you will suffice me. My visits - will be but rare; yet, if our thoughts may meet, I shall feel - that--after these long and dreary years during which I have been - nothing to you--I may in time become your friend. Friends with such - devotion as mine are not too often found. I will encircle you with - love so sweet, so tender, with affection so compounded of all that - is simplest in a child and all that is best and grandest in a man - that, surely, in time you will feel its charm and turn to me one - day, saying: - - “I am in very deed your friend.” - - “Adieu, madame, once more I read your note of the 23rd with its - assurance of your _sentiments affectueux_. Surely this is no mere - formality? Tell me truly--truly!--Yours to eternity, - - HECTOR BERLIOZ.” - - “_P.S._--I send you three books; perhaps you will glance at them - in your leisure moments. Do you see the author’s device to make you - take a little interest in him?” - - - MADAME F.’S _Answer_. - - “LYONS, _29th September 1864_. - - “MONSIEUR,--I should wrong both you and myself did I not - reply at once to your dream of our future friendship; believe me, I - speak from my heart. - - “I am an old woman (remember I am six years your senior), worn and - withered by bodily pain and mental anguish, with all my earthly - illusions swept away. - - “Since the fatal day, twenty years ago, that I lost my best friend, - I have said good-bye to worldly pleasures, and have found my sole - consolation in a few old friends and in my children. - - “In this absolute calm, alone, can I find rest, and to upset it - would be burdensome indeed. - - “In your letter of the 27th you say you have but one wish--that - I may become your friend. Do you believe, monsieur, that this - could possibly be? I hardly know you, I have seen you but once in - forty-nine years; how can I understand your tastes, your character, - your capacities--all those hundred and one points upon which, - alone, friendship can be based? - - “With two people of like affinities, sympathy may be born and grow - into friendship, but, far apart as we are, no correspondence could - bring about what you desire. - - “Besides, I must confess that I am most lazy about letters; my - mind is as torpid as my fingers. I could not, therefore, promise - to write regularly, for the promise would certainly not be kept. - Still, if you feel a certain pleasure in writing, I will read your - letters, although you must not expect speedy replies. - - “Neither can I promise to receive you alone. At Geneva, in the - house of my son and his wife, it would be impossible for me to - arrange matters as you wish. - - “I tell you all this with perfect frankness, for I feel so strongly - that, as grey hairs come, dreams must be thrust aside--such - friendships belong to the happy days of youth, not to the - disenchantments of old age. - - “My future is so short; why indulge in a dream that must fade so - quickly? Why create these vain regrets? - - “In what I say, monsieur, do not think that I wish to wound you, to - belittle your remembrance of the past. I respect it, and am greatly - touched. - - “You are still young at heart, and I am old and good for nothing - but to keep a warm place for you in my memory. In your triumphs I - shall always take a cordial interest. - - “Again, monsieur, I send you my affectionate regards. - - ESTELLE F----.” - - “I have received the books you so kindly sent. A thousand thanks.” - - - _Second Letter._ - - “PARIS, _2nd October 1864_. - - “MADAME,--I have not answered sooner, hoping that I - might overcome the terrible depression caused by your letter--a - masterpiece of sad truth. - - “You are right to avoid all that might disturb your calm; but - be assured that I should never have done so, and that this - friendship, for which I so humbly begged, should never have become - _burdensome_. (Is not this rather a cruel word?) - - “But you will take an interest in my career, and for that I - kiss your hand with deepest gratitude. Yet, with tears, with - importunity, I pray for news of you sometimes. - - “You talk so bravely of old age that I must e’en be brave too. I - pray I may die first that I may send you my last farewell! But if I - must hear that you have left this sad earth ... will your son tell - it me?--pardon! - - “Give me, at least, what you would give to the merest - stranger--your address at Geneva. - - “I will not go there for a year, I fear to trouble you; but your - address! your address! If your silence shows that you refuse - even this meagre concession, you will have put a crown on the - unhappiness you might have softened. - - “Then, madame, may God and your conscience forgive you! - - “Lost in the cold dark night wherein you have thrust me, I shall - wander--grieving, suffering, alone, but still,--Yours devotedly - until death, - - HECTOR BERLIOZ.” - - - - - MADAME F.’S _Second Letter_. - - “LYONS, _14th October 1864_. - - “MONSIEUR,--I write in haste, that you may believe I have - no wish to be unkind. My son is to be married on the 19th, and I - shall have much to do. - - “Immediately afterwards I must prepare to go to Geneva--no light - task for my weak health. Early in November I leave, and, as soon as - I am settled in my new home, you shall have my address, which I do - not yet know. - - “I would have waited to get it from my son, but I feared to pain - you by my long silence.” - - - _Third Letter._ - - “_15th October 1864._ - - “MADAME,--Oh, thank you! thank you! I will wait. - - “My best wishes for the young couple and for you! - - “Dear lady, may this solemn time bring you ineffable joy. - - “Ah, how good you are! - - “Do not fear that my adoration will become unreasonable.--Your - devoted - - HECTOR BERLIOZ.” - - - -After an impatient fortnight, I received the announcement of M. Charles -F.’s marriage, addressed in his mother’s writing; which filled me with -a joy that few can understand. I was in the seventh heaven, and wrote -at once:-- - - “_28th October 1864._--Life is beautiful under certain aspects. I - have received the notice addressed by you! A thought for the poor - exile. May your good angel render fourfold the good you have done! - Yes, life is beautiful, but how much more beautiful death. To be at - your feet, my head upon your knee, your two hands clasped in mine, - and so to end---- - - HECTOR BERLIOZ.” - - - -Days passed into weeks; Madame F. had gone to Geneva. Could she intend -to withhold her address? To break her word? - -During that anxious time I believed I should write to her no more, and -my heart despaired. - -But one morning, as I sat drearily musing beside the fire, a card was -brought to me:-- - - “M. ET MME CHARLES F----.” - -The son and his wife, and _she_ had sent them! - -Yet how greatly it upset me to find the young man the living image of -his mother at eighteen. - -The bride seemed quite bewildered at my emotion, although her husband -was not; evidently he knew all; Madame F. had shown my letters. - -“How beautiful she must have been!” cried the young wife. - -“Oh!----” - -“Yes,” said M. F., “I remember even now how dazzled I was, at five -years old, on seeing my mother dressed for a ball.” - -Gradually I subdued my feelings, and was able to talk sensibly to my -visitors. Madame C. F. was a Dutch creole of Java, and knew Rajah -Brooke of Sarawak. - -How much I should have had to ask her had I been in my usual state of -mind. - -I saw them pleasantly often during their stay in Paris, and we talked -of _her_. As we grew more friendly, the bride scolded me for writing as -I had done. - -“You frighten her,” she said. “Remember she hardly knows you. You must -learn to be calm, then your visits to Geneva will be delightful, and we -shall be so happy to see you. You will come, will you not?” - -“Can you doubt it, if Madame F. gives me permission?” - -Schooling myself rigidly, I gave them no letter for their mother when -they left; but, as my _Trojans_ was to be given, I sent her a copy of -the poem, begging her to read the page I had marked with some dead -leaves at half-past two on the 18th December, the time at which that -passage would be played in Paris. Madame C. F. was to be back in Paris -then, and hoped to be present at this concert, which was making some -stir in the musical world. - -A fortnight went by and she did not come, neither did I have a letter. -I was almost at the end of my patience, although I would not write, -when, on the 17th, Madame C. F. returned bringing me the following -letter: - - “GENEVA, _16th December 1864_. - - “MONSIEUR,--I ought to have thanked you sooner for your - charming welcome of my son and his wife had I not been unwell, and - consequently, very idle. - - “But I cannot let my daughter-in-law go without my grateful thanks - for all the pleasure you have given them. - - “Suzanne will tell you all about our life here; I should be as - happy as in Lyons, were it not for my separation from my other two - sons and from my dear old friends. - - “Once more, thank you for the libretto of _The Trojans_, and also - for the sweet souvenir of the Meylan leaves--they bring back the - bright, happy days of my youth. - - “My son and I will read the part of your work that you have marked, - and shall think of Suzanne listening to your music on Sunday.” - -To which I replied: - - “PARIS, _19th December 1864_.--Last September, when at - Grenoble, I visited one of my cousins, who lives near St Georges, a - wretched hamlet niched into the most barren mountains on the left - bank of the Drac, inhabited only by a few miserable peasants. - - “My cousin’s sister-in-law is the sweet providence of this forsaken - corner, and on the day of my arrival she heard that one far-away - family had had no bread for three weeks. - - “She started off at once to see the mother. - - “‘Why, Jeanne!’ she cried, ‘how could - you be in trouble and not tell me? You know how anxious we are to - help.’ - - “‘Oh, mademoiselle, we are not really - in want yet; we still have some potatoes and a few cabbages, only - the children don’t like them. They shout and cry for bread. You - know children are so unreasonable.’ - - “Well, dear lady, you too have done a kind thing in writing. - I would not write for fear of boring you, so waited for your - daughter’s return. She came not! My anxiety choked me. You see, - madame, creatures such as I are _unreasonable_. - - “Yet surely I--if anyone--hardly need to learn lessons that have - been taught me already by so many knife-thrusts in my heart. - - “It seems to me that you are sad, and that makes me the more.... - From to-day I mean to restrain my language, to talk of outward - things only. - - “You know what is in my heart--all that I do not say. - - “Perhaps you already know that, thanks to the thousand and one - annoyances brought upon me by the Conservatoire committee, my - _Trojans_ was not performed yesterday. Still, I thank you for the - time you have spent in thought with us in the concert-room. My - son, who has done well in Mexico, has just landed at St Nazaire. - He is first lieutenant of his ship, and, as he cannot come to - Paris, I am going to Brittany to see him. He is a good boy, but - is, unfortunately, too much like his father, and cannot reconcile - himself to the commonplaces and troubles of this world. - - “We love each other dearly. - - “My aged mother-in-law, whom I have promised never to leave, takes - the greatest care of me, and accepts unquestioningly my gloomy - tempers. I read again and again Shakespeare, Virgil, Homer, _Paul - and Virginia_, and travels of all kinds. I am horribly bored and - suffer agonies from neuralgia that doctors have tried in vain, for - nine years, to cure. - - “When the pains of mind, body and estate grow too much for me, I - take three drops of laudanum to snatch some sleep. - - “If I feel better I go and see my friends, M. and Mme Damcke. - - “He is a German composer of rare gifts; his wife is an angel of - goodness to me. - - “There I do as I like. If I am in the humour we talk or play; if - not, they draw up a big sofa to the fire, and there I lie the - whole evening without a word--chewing the cud of sweet and bitter - fancies. This, madame, is all. - - “You know that I neither write nor compose, for the present state - of art in Paris makes me both sick and sorry--which proves that I - am not dead yet! - - “I hope to have the honour of escorting Madame C. F. and a Russian - friend of hers to the Théâtre Italien to hear Donizetti’s _Poliuto_. - - “Madame Charton will give me a box. - - “Good-bye, madame. May your thoughts be blest, your heart at rest, - and your life serene in the assured love of your children and - friends. But send a thought sometimes to the _poor child who is - unreasonable_.--Your devoted - - H. B.” - - “_P.S._--It was good of you to send the bride and bridegroom to see - me. I was so struck with the likeness of M. Charles to Mademoiselle - Estelle that, although such compliments are out of place to a man, - I so far forgot myself as to tell him so.” - -Some time later she wrote: - - “Believe me, I am not without sympathy for _unreasonable children_. - I have always found the best way to quiet them is to give them - pictures to look at. - - “I therefore take the liberty of sending you one that I hope, - by bringing home the reality of the present, will wipe out the - illusion of the past.” - -She sent me her portrait! My dear lady! - -And here I stop. - -Now I can live calmly. I shall write, she will reply. I shall see her, -shall know where she is, and shall never again be without news of her. - -Perhaps, in spite of her dread of new ties, her affection for me may -grow slowly and quietly. Already life seems more possible, since the -past is not irretrievably over and done with. - -No longer is my heaven overcast. My sweet bright star smiles upon me -from afar. She does not love me, truly, but why should she? She knows, -however, that I love her. - -I must find consolation in the thought that she knew me too late, just -as I comfort myself for not having known Virgil, Gluck, Beethoven or -Shakespeare--who might, perhaps, have loved me too. - -(All the same, I am not comforted in the very least!) - - * * * * * - -Which power raises man the higher? Love or Music? It is a great -question. It seems to me that one might say this: “Love cannot give an -idea of music, but music can give an idea of love--why separate them?” - -They are the twin wings of the soul. - - * * * * * - -Seeing the conception some people have of Love, and what they look for -in Art, makes me liken them to swine rooting in a bed of lovely flowers -and among mighty oaks, hoping to turn up with their snouts the truffles -for which they are greedy. - -I will think no more of Art.... Stella! Stella! I can die now without -bitterness or anger. - - * * * * * - -_1st January 1865._ - - * * * * * - -[This is the end of Berlioz’ own Memoir. The rest of his life must be -gathered from the few remaining letters to his intimate friends and -from M. Bernard’s short account of his last days.] - - - - -XXXVII - -THE AFTERGLOW - - - _To_ HUMBERT FERRAND. - - “PARIS, _28th October 1864_.--Dear Humbert,--On returning - from my visit to Dauphiny I found your sad letter. You must have - had difficulty in writing, yet your young friend, M. Bernard, tells - me you are able to go out sometimes, leaning on a friendly arm. - - “When first I went into the country my neuralgia was better, but - very soon it came back worse than ever, from eight in the morning - till four in the afternoon. - - “Then, oh! my weariness and troubles of all sorts! - - “Nevertheless, there are compensations. Louis is doing well, though - our long partings are hard to bear, for we love each other dearly. - - “As for the musical world, the corruption in Paris is beyond - belief, and I retire more and more into my shell. - - “_Beatrice_ is to be performed in Stuttgart, and I may go to - conduct it. I am also asked to go to St Petersburg in March, but - shall not do so unless they offer me a sum tempting enough to make - me brave that horrible climate. Then I shall do it for Louis’ sake, - for of what use are a few thousand francs more to me? - - “I cannot imagine why some people have taken to flattering me so - grossly. Their compliments are enough to scrape the paint off the - walls, and I long to say to them: - - “‘Monsieur, you forget that I am no - longer a critic. I write no more for the papers.’ - - “The monotony of my life has been broken lately. - - “Madame Erard, Madame Spontini and their niece begged me to read - _Othello_ to them. The door was rigorously closed to all comers, - and I read the masterpiece through from beginning to end to my - audience of six, who wept gloriously. - - “Great heaven! What a revelation of the deepest depths of the human - heart! That angel Desdemona, that noble fate-haunted Othello, that - devil incarnate Iago! And to think that it was all written by a - being like unto ourselves! - - “It needs long, close study to put oneself in the point of view of - the author, to follow the magnificent sweep of his mighty wings. - And translators are such donkeys. - - “Laroche is the best--most exact, least ignorant--yet I have to - correct ever so many mistakes in my copy. - - “Liszt has been here for a week, and we dined together twice. - - “As we kept carefully off things musical we had a pleasant time. - He has gone back to Rome to play the _Music of the Future_ to the - Pope, who asks himself what on earth it all means.” - - * * * * * - - “_10th November 1864._--Can you believe, dear Humbert, that I have - a grudge against the past? Why did I not know Virgil. - - “I see him dreaming in his Sicilian villa--so hospitable, so - gracious. - - “And Shakespeare, that mighty Sphinx, impassible as a mirror, - reflecting not creating. Yet what ineffable compassion must he not - have had for poor, small, human things? - - “And Beethoven, rough and scornful, yet blessed with such exquisite - tenderness and delicacy that I think I could have forgiven him all - his contempt, his rudeness, everything! - - “And Gluck, the stately!... - - “Last week M. Blanche, the doctor of the Passy lunatic asylum, - invited a party of artists and _savants_ to celebrate the - anniversary of the performance of _The Trojans_. - - “I was invited and kept entirely in the dark. - - “Gounod was there. In his sweet, weak voice, but with the most - perfect expression, he sang ‘_O nuit d’ivresse_’ with Madame - Bauderali; then, alone, the song of Hylos. - - “A young lady played the dances, and they made me recite without - music Dido’s scena, ‘_Va, ma sœur_.’ - - “It had a fine effect. They all knew my score by heart. I longed to - have you there.” - - * * * * * - - “PARIS, _23rd December 1864_.--I have just sent you a copy - of _La Nation_, with two columns by Gasperini about _The Trojans_ - business at the Conservatoire. I did not know of that letter of - Gluck. Where the devil did you get it? That is always the way. - Beethoven was even more insulted than Gluck. Weber and Spontini - share the honour. - - “Only people like M. de Flotow, author of _Martha_, have - panegyrists. His dull opera is sung in all languages, all theatres. - - “I went to hear that delicious little Patti sing _Martha_ the other - day; when I came out I felt creepy all over, just as if I had come - out of a fowlhouse--with consequences! - - “I told the little prodigy of a girl that I would _forgive_ her for - making me listen to platitudes--that was the utmost I could do! - - “But that exquisite Irish air, ‘The Last Rose of Summer,’ is - introduced, and she sings it with such poetic simplicity that its - perfume is almost enough to disinfect the rest of the score. - - “I will send Louis your congratulations; he will be very pleased. - He has read your letters and thinks me fortunate in having such a - friend as you. Good-bye.” - - - _To_ MADAME ERNST. - - “PARIS, _14th December 1864_.--You are really too good to - have written to me, dear Madame Ernst, and I ought to reply in a - sleek, smooth style, mouth nicely buttoned up, cravat well tied, - myself all smiles and amiability. Well, I can’t! - - “I am ill, miserable, disgusted, bored, idiotic, wearisome, cross, - and altogether impossible. It is one of those days when I am in the - sort of temper that I wish the earth were a charged bomb, that I - might light the fuse for fun. - - “The account of your Nice pleasures does not amuse me in the least. - - “I should love to see you and your dear invalid, but I could not - accept your offer of a room. I would rather live in the cave under - the Ponchettes. - - “There I could growl comfortably alongside Caliban (I know he lives - there, I saw him one day), and the sea does not often come into it; - whereas with friends, there are all sorts of unbearable attentions. - - “They ask how you pass the night, but not how your _ennui_ is - getting on;[31] they laugh when you say silly things; are always - mutely trying to find out whether you are sad or gay; they talk to - you when you are only soliloquising, and then the husband says to - the wife, ‘Do let him alone, don’t bother him,’ etc., etc. Then you - feel a brute and go out, banging the door and feeling you have - laid the train of a domestic quarrel. - - “Now in Caliban’s grotto there is none of this. - - “Well, never mind! - - “You stroll on the terrace and along the shady walks? And then? - - “You admire the sunsets? And then? - - “You watch the tunny fishers? And then? - - “You envy young English heiresses? And then? - - “You envy still more the idiots without ideas or feelings who - understand nothing and love nothing? And then?... - - “Why, bless you, I can give you all that! - - “We have terraces and trees in Paris. There are sunsets, English - heiresses, idiots (they are even more plentiful than at Nice for - the population is larger), and gudgeon to be caught with a line. - One can be quite as extensively bored as at Nice. It is the same - thing everywhere. - - “Yesterday I had a delightful letter from some unknown man about - _The Trojans_. He tells me that the Parisians are used to more - _indulgent_ music than mine. - - “Is not that an admirable epithet? - - “The Viennese telegraph that they celebrated my birthday by giving - _Faust_, and that the double chorus was an immense success. I did - not even know I had a birthday!” - - - _To_ H. FERRAND. - - - “PARIS, _8th February 1864_. - - “DEAR HUMBERT,--It is six in the evening, and I have - only just got up, for I took laudanum yesterday and am quite - stupefied. What a life! I would bet a good deal that you too are - worse. Nevertheless I mean to go out to-night to hear Beethoven’s - Septuor; I want it to warm my blood, and my favourite artists are - playing it. - - “The day after to-morrow I ought to read _Hamlet_ at Massart’s. - Shall I have strength to go through it? It lasts five hours. Of my - audience of five only Madame Massart knows anything of the play. - - “I feel almost afraid of bringing these artist natures too abruptly - face to face with this supreme manifestation of genius. It seems to - me like giving sight suddenly to one born blind. - - “I believe they will understand it, for I know them well; but to be - forty-five or fifty and not know _Hamlet_! One might as well have - lived down a coal mine. Shakespeare says: - - “Glory is like a circle in the water - Which never ceaseth to enlarge itself - Till, by wide spreading, it disperse to naught.” - - * * * * * - - “_26th April 1865._--How can I tell you what is cooking in the - musical cauldron of Paris? I have got out of it and hardly ever get - in again. - - “I went to a general rehearsal of Meyerbeer’s _Africaine_, which - lasted from half-past seven to half-past one. - - “I don’t think I am likely to go again. - - “Joachim, the celebrated German violinist, has been here ten days; - he plays nearly every evening at different houses. Thus I heard - Beethoven’s piano trio in B♭♯, the sonata in A, and the quartett in - E minor--the music of the starry spheres. - - “You will quite understand that after this I am in no mood for - listening to commonplace productions praised by the Mayor and Town - Council. - - “If I possibly can, I will see you this summer. I am going to - Geneva and Grenoble. - - - _To_ LOUIS BERLIOZ. - - “PARIS, _28th June 1865_.--I hardly know why I am writing, - for I have nothing to say. Your letter troubles me greatly. Now - you say you _dread_ being captain; you have no confidence in - yourself, yet you wish to be appointed. - - “You want a home instead of your quiet room; you want to marry--but - not an ordinary woman. It is all easy to understand, but you must - not shrink from the duties that alone will ensure your gaining your - end. - - “You are thirty-two, and if you do not realise the responsibility - of life now, you never will. - - “You need money; I can give you none; I find it difficult to make - ends meet as it is. I will leave you what my father left me, - perhaps a little more--but I cannot tell you when I shall die. - - “In any case it must be ere long. - - “So do not speak to me of desires I cannot satisfy. - - “I, too, wish I had a fortune. First, that I might share it with - you; and next, that I might travel and have my works performed. - - “Remember, if you were married you would be a hundred times worse - off than you are now. Take warning from me. - - “Only a series of miracles--Paganini’s gift, my tour in Russia, - etc., saved me from the most ghastly privations. - - “Miracles are rare, else were they not miracles. - - “Your letter has no ending. I feel as if you had suddenly realised - the meaning of the world, society, pleasure, and pain. - - * * * * * - - “_14th July 1865._--Yes, dear Louis, let us chat whenever we can. - Your letter was most welcome, for yesterday life was hideous. - - “I went out and wandered up and down the Boulevards des Italiens - and des Capucines, until at half-past eight I felt hungry. - - “I went into the Café Cardinal, and there found Balfe, the Irish - composer, who asked me to dinner. - - “Afterwards we went to the Grand Hotel, where he is staying, and I - smoked an excellent cigar--which, all the same, made me ill this - morning. - - “We talked and talked of Shakespeare, whom he says he has only - really understood during the last ten or twelve years. - - “I never read the papers, so tell me where you saw those nice - things you quote about me. - - “Do you know that Liszt has become an abbé? - - “You shall have a stitched copy of my _Mémoires_ as soon as I get - one, but I must have your solemn promise not to let it out of your - own hands, and to return it when you have read it.” - - - _To_ M. AND MME DAMCKE.[32] - - “HÔTEL DE LA MÉTROPOLE, GENEVA, _22nd August 1865_.--Dear - Friends,--I only write lest you should think yourselves forgotten. - You know I do not easily forget, and, if I did, I could never lose - remembrance of such friends as you. - - “I am strangely and indescribably agitated here. - - “Sometimes quite calm, at others full of uneasiness--even pain. - I was most cordially welcomed. They like me to be with them, and - chide me when I keep away. - - “I stay there sometimes four hours at a time. We go long walks - beside the lake. Yesterday we took a drive, but I am never alone - with her, so can speak only of outward things, and I feel that the - oppression of my heart will kill me. - - “What can I do? I am unjust, stupid, unreasonable. - - “They have all read the _Mémoires_. _She_ reproached me mildly for - publishing her letters, but her daughter-in-law said I was quite - right, and I believe she was not really vexed. - - “Already I dread the moment of departure. It is charming country, - and the lake is most beautiful, pure and deep; yet I know something - deeper, purer, and yet more beautiful.... - - “Adieu, dear friends.” - - - _To_ MADAME MASSART. - - “PARIS, _15th September 1865_.--Good afternoon, madame. - How are you, and how is Massart? - - “I am quite at sea, not finding you here. - - “I have come back from Geneva just as ill as I went. - - “At first I was better, but after a little the pain came again - worse than ever. - - “How lucky you are to be free from such trouble! Having a moment’s - respite, I use it in writing to you.” - - “You will either laugh, saying--or say, laughing, ‘Why write to me?’ - - “Probably you would rather that this preposterous idea had not - entered my head, but there it is, and, if you find it mistimed, you - have the remedy in your own hands--not to answer. - - “All the same, the inner meaning of my letter is--to extract one - from you. If only you could conceive the frightful impetuosity with - which one bores oneself in Paris! - - “I am alone, more than alone. I hear never a note of music--nothing - but gibberish to right of me, gibberish to left of me. When will - you be back? When shall I hear you play a sonata again? I often - talked of you in Geneva, where I was petted, spoilt--and scolded a - little, too. - - “When you come back we will gather together our choice spirits, our - good men and true, and read _Coriolanus_. I only really _live_ in - watching the enthusiasm of fresh sympathetic souls--undeadened by - the world. - - “I quite enjoyed at Vienne making my nieces cry over it. They are - dear girls, impressionable as a photographic plate--which is rather - odd, seeing that they have always lived in that most provincial of - provinces, among utterly anti-literary people. - - “My thick autobiography awaits you, but remember, it is yours only - for the time it takes you and Massart to read it. It is very sad, - but very true. - - “I am quite ashamed that I had not the sense to speak of the many - calm, sweet hours I owe to you, and of my deep affection for you - both. I have only just noticed that you are not even mentioned. - - “Ah, the pain! Madame, forgive me. I can write no more!” - - - _To_ LOUIS BERLIOZ. - - “_13th November 1865._--Dear Boy,--Your letter has just come, and I - want to reply before I go back to bed. - - “How I suffer! If I could I would fly off to Palermo or to Nice. - - “It is horrible weather. I have to light a lamp at half-past three. - - “To-night is our Monday dinner, and as I shall have to get up and - go to it, I want to snatch a little sleep first. - - “I have had no letter from Geneva, but I did not expect one. When - one comes my heart lightens and my spirits rise. - - “My poor, dear boy. What should I do without you? - - “Can you believe that I always loved you, even when you were tiny? - I, who find it so difficult to like little children! - - “There was always some attraction that drew me to you. - - “It weakened when you got to the stupid stage and were a - hobbledehoy. Since then it has come back, has increased, and now, - as you know, I love you, and my love grows daily.” - - - _To_ H. FERRAND. - - “_17th January 1866._--I am alone in the chimney corner writing to - you. - - “I was greatly excited this morning by the manager of the Théâtre - Lyrique, who has asked me to supervise his intended revival of - _Armida_. It will hardly suit his pettifogging world. - - “Madame Charton-Demeurs, who undertakes the overpowering rôle of - Armida, comes every day to rehearse with M. Saint-Saëns, a great - pianist, a great musician, who knows his Gluck almost as well as I - do. - - “It is curious to see the poor lady floundering blindly in the - sublime, and to watch the gradually dawning light. - - “This morning, in the Hatred scene, Saint-Saëns and I could only - grasp hands in silence--we were breathless! - - “Never did human being find such expression! And to think that - this masterpiece is vilified, blasphemed, insulted, attacked on - all sides, even by those who profess to admire it. It belongs to - another world. Why are you not here to enjoy it too! - - “Will you believe that since I have taken to music again my pains - have departed? - - “I get up every day just like other people. But I have quite enough - to endure with the actors, and, above all, with the conductor. It - is coming out in April. - - “Madame Fournier writes that a friend she met in Geneva spoke - warmly of _The Trojans_. That is good, but I should have done - better if I had written one of Offenbach’s atrocities. - - “What will those toads of Parisians say to _Armida_?” - - * * * * * - - “_8th March 1866._--Dear Humbert,--I am answering you this morning - simply to tell you what happened yesterday at a great charity - concert--with trebled prices--in the Cirque Napoléon, under - Pasdeloup. - - “They played the great Septuor from _The Trojans_, Madame Charton - sang; there was a chorus of a hundred and fifty, and the usual fine - orchestra. - - “The whole programme was miserably received except the _Lohengrin_ - March, and the overture to the _Prophet_ was so hissed that the - police had to turn out the malcontents. - - “Then came the Septuor. Endless applause, and an encore. - - “The second time it went even better. The audience spied me on my - three-franc bench (they had not honoured me with a ticket). There - were more calls, shouts, waving of hats and handkerchiefs. - - “‘_Vive Berlioz!_’ they cried. ‘Get up; - we want to see you.’ - - “I, the while, trying to hide myself! - - “Coming out, a crowd surrounded me on the boulevard. This morning - many callers, and a charming letter from Legouvé’s daughter. - - “Liszt was there. I saw him from my perch. He has just come from - Rome. Why were you not there too? - - “There were at least three thousand people. Once I should have been - pleased.... - - “The effect was grand, particularly the sound of the sea - (impossible to give on the piano) at the passage: - - ‘And the sleeping sea - Whispers in dreams her sweet deep chords.’ - - “It touched me profoundly. - - “My gallery neighbours, hearing that I was the author of it, - pressed my hands and thanked me. - - “Why were you not there?” - - * * * * * - - “_9th March._--Just a word added to what I wrote yesterday. - - “A few amateurs have written me a round-robin of congratulation. - The letter is a slightly altered copy of that which I wrote to - Spontini twenty-two years ago about his _Fernando Cortez_. - - “Is it not a pretty idea to apply to me what I said to him so long - ago?” - - - _To_ MADAME MASSART. - - “_3rd September 1866._--Such a misfortune, dear madame! This - morning--yes, really only this morning--I composed the most clever - and complimentary letter to you--a master-piece of delicate, dainty - flattery. Then I went to sleep and--when I awoke it was all gone, - and I am reduced to mere commonplaces. - - “I will not speak of the boredom you must be suffering in your - little card-board bandbox by the sea, lest I should drive you to - commit suicide--by no means a suitable way out of the difficulty - for a pretty woman! - - “Yet, what on earth _are_ you to do? - - “You have gone the round of Beethoven over and over again; you have - read Homer; you know some of Shakespeare’s best works; you see the - sea every day; you have friends and a husband who worships you. - - “Great heavens, what _is_ to become of you? - - “I do my best to make your sea-side life bearable by not coming - near you. Can I do more? - - “I ought to be at Geneva, but a cousin of mine is going to be - married next week and wants me to be one of his witnesses. - - “Could I refuse? One ought to help relations out of difficulties! - - “Perrin also wishes me to superintend the rehearsals of _Alcestis_, - but he dawdles so, waiting for Society to come back to Paris (as if - there were Society for _Alcestis_!), that I am going to leave him - stranded and start for Geneva. - - “Ah! dear lady, how glorious it is! how grand! The other day at - rehearsal we all wept like stags at bay. - - “‘What a man Gluck was!’ cried Perrin. - - “‘No,’ said I, ‘_we_ are the men. Don’t - get confused.’ - - “Taylor said yesterday that Gluck had more heart than Homer; truly, - he is more thoroughly human. - - “And we are going to offer this food for the gods to pure idiots! - - “Is Massart shooting, fishing, painting, building, dreaming? - - “He has covered himself with glory. His pupils have carried off all - the prizes this year; he can wallow in laurels, though he certainly - might find a more comfortable bed! - - “Here ends my scribble; I press your learned hand.” - - - _To_ HUMBERT FERRAND. - - “_10th November 1866._--Dear Humbert,--I ought to be in Vienna, - but the concert is put off. I suppose that _Faust_ was not learnt - to their satisfaction, and they only wish me to hear it when it is - nearly ready. - - “It will be a real joy to listen to it again; I have not heard the - whole of it since it was performed twelve years ago in Dresden. - - “The _Alcestis_ rehearsals have done me good; never did it appear - so grand, and surely never before was it so finely rendered. - - “A whole new generation has arisen to worship. - - “The other day a lady near me sobbed so violently that every one - around noticed her, and I got crowds of letters thanking me for my - devoted care for Gluck. - - “Ingres is not the only one of our Institute colleagues who comes - constantly; most of the painters and sculptors love the beautiful - Antique, of which the very sorrow is not disfiguring. - - “I am sending you the pocket-score; you will easily read it and I - am sure will enjoy it.” - - - _To_ M. ERNEST REYER. - - “VIENNA, _17th December 1866_.--Dear Reyer,--I only got up - at four to-day, as yesterday over-did me. - - “It would be foolish of me to describe the recalls, encores, - tears, and flowers I received after the performance of _Faust_ in - the _Salle de la Redoute_; I had a chorus of three hundred, an - orchestra of a hundred and fifty, and splendid soloists. - - “This evening there is to be a grand fête; three hundred artists - and amateurs--among them the hundred and fifty lady-amateurs who, - with their sweet fresh voices, sang my choruses. - - “How well, too, they had been trained by Herbeck, who first thought - of giving my work in its entirety, and who would let himself be - chopped in pieces for me. - - “To-morrow I am invited by the Conservatoire to hear Helmesberger - conduct my _Harold_. - - “This has been the most perfect musical joy of my life, so forgive - me if I say too much! - - “Well! this is one score saved at any rate. They can play it now in - Vienna under Herbeck, who knows it by heart. - - “The Paris Conservatoire may leave me in outer darkness and stick - to its antiquated repertoire if it likes. - - “You have drawn down this tirade on your own head by asking me to - write! - - “Good-bye; I have been invited to Breslau to conduct _Romeo and - Juliet_, but I must get back to Paris before the end of the month.” - - - _To_ HUMBERT FERRAND. - - “PARIS, _11th January 1867_.--It is midnight, dear friend. - I write in bed, as usual; you will read my letter in bed--also as - usual. - - “Your last letter hurt me; I read the suffering between the lines. - I wanted to reply at once, but my tortures, medical stupidity, - doses of laudanum (all useless and productive only of evil dreams), - prevented me. - - “I see now how difficult it will be for us to meet. You cannot - stir, and for three quarters of the year I cannot either. What are - we to do? - - “My journey to Vienna nearly made an end of me--even the warmth of - their enthusiasm could not protect me from the rigours of their - winter. This awful climate will be the death of me. - - “Dear Louis writes of his morning rides in the forests of - Martinique, and describes the lovely tropical vegetation--the real - hot sun. That is what you and I both need. - - “Dear friend, the dull rumbling of passing carriages breaks the - silence of the night. Paris is damp, cold, and muddy--Parisian - Paris! - - “Now all is still; it sleeps the sleep of the unrighteous. - - “Have you the full score of my _Mass for the Dead_? If I were - threatened with the destruction of all that I have ever written, it - would be for that Mass that I should beg life. - - “Good-bye; I shall lie awake and think of you.” - - - _To_ FERDINAND HILLER. - - “PARIS, _8th February 1867_.--Dear Hiller,--You are the - best of good friends! - - “I will do as you bid me; take my courage in both hands, and on the - 23rd start for Cologne. - - “I shall be at the Hotel Royal by evening, but do not engage - _rooms_ for me, one tiny one is enough. - - “If I cannot possibly travel, I will send on the orchestral - score of the duet from _Beatrice_. It is very effective and not - difficult--almost any singers could manage it, provided they were - not geese. - - “To be sure, we both have an intimate acquaintance with these - winged fowl! - - “You talk like the doctors. ‘It is neuralgia.’ - - “That is just like Madame Sand and her gardener. - - “She told him the garden wall had tumbled down. - - “‘Oh, it is nothing, madame, the frost - did it.’ - - “‘Yes, but it must be rebuilt.’ - - “‘It’s only the frost, that’s all.’ - - “‘I do not say it is not the frost, but - there it is on the ground.’ - - “‘Don’t worry about it, madame, the - frost did it.’ - - “I can write no more. I must go to bed.” - - - _To_ H. FERRAND. - - “_11th June 1867._--Thanks for your letter, dear friend, it did me - good. - - “Yes, I am in Paris, but so ill I can hardly write. Besides, I am - worried about Louis, who is in Mexico, and I do not know what those - Mexican ruffians may not be up to. - - “The Exhibition is turning Paris into an Inferno. I have not been - there yet, for I can hardly walk. - - “Yesterday there was a great function at Court, but I was too weak - to dress and go to it.... - - “I wrote so far at the Conservatoire, where I was one of the jury - in awarding the Exhibition musical prize. We heard a hundred and - four cantatas, and I had the very great pleasure of seeing the - prize unanimously awarded to my young friend, Camille Saint-Saëns, - one of the greatest musicians of our time. - - “I have been urgently pressed to go to New York where, say the - Americans, I am popular. They played _Harold_ five times last year - with success truly _Viennese_. - - “I am quite elated with our jury meeting. How happy Saint-Saëns - will be! I hurried off to tell him, but he was out with his mother. - - “He is an astounding pianist. - - “Well! at last our musical world has done something sensible; it - makes me feel quite strong, I could not have written you such a - long letter were it not for my joy.” - - - - -XXXVIII - -DARKNESS AND LIGHT - - - _To_ H. FERRAND. - - “_30th June 1867._--A terrible grief has fallen upon me. My poor - boy, at thirty-three captain of a fine vessel, has just died at - Havana.” - - * * * * * - - “_15th July 1867._--Just a few words, since you ask for them; but - it is wrong of me to sadden you too. - - “I am so much worse that I am really hardly alive and have barely - sense enough to grasp poor Louis’ business affairs; fortunately one - of his friends is helping me. Thanks for your letter; forgive my - stupidity. I am fit for nothing but sleep. - - “Adieu, adieu!” - - - _To_ MADAME DAMCKE at Montreux. - - “PARIS, _24th September 1867_.--Dear Madame Damcke,--I - should have written sooner had I known your address, therefore - double thanks for your letter. - - “My answer is short; I am as ill as usual. - - “After my fifth bath at Néris the doctor, hearing me speak, felt my - pulse and cried: - - “‘Be off out of this as fast as you - can; the waters are the worst possible for you, you are on the - verge of laryngitis. Confound it all, it is really serious.’ - - “So off I went the same evening and was nearly choked by a fit of - coughing in the train. - - “My nieces at Vienne nursed me devotedly but, when my throat got - better, back came my neuralgia more fiendishly than ever. - - “I stayed long enough to see my elder niece married. Thirty-three - relations came from all parts to the wedding--but _one_, alas! was - missing. - - “The one I most rejoiced to see was my old uncle, the colonel. He - is eighty-four. We both wept on meeting; he seemed almost ashamed - of still being alive--how much more, then, should I! - - “I spend most of my time in bed, but the Grand Duchess Helen is - coaxing me to get up and go to St Petersburg. She wishes to see - me and I have agreed to go on the 15th November and conduct six - concerts. Best wishes to you both.” - - - _To_ M. AND MME MASSART. - - “PARIS, _4th October 1867_.--Yes, it is quite true. I am - going to Russia. The Grand Duchess Helen was here the other day - and made me such generous proposals that, after some hesitation, I - accepted. I am to conduct six Conservatoire concerts; five of the - grandest works of the great masters and the sixth entirely of my - own compositions. - - “I am to have rooms in her palace and the use of one of her - carriages; she pays all my travelling expenses and gives me fifteen - thousand francs. - - “I shall be tired to death--ill as I am already. Will you not come - too? You should play your jovial Bach concerto in D minor and we - would enjoy ourselves. - - “Three days ago an American,[33] hearing that I had accepted the - Russian engagement, came and offered me a hundred thousand francs - to go to New York next year. What do you think of that? Meanwhile, - he has had a bronze bust of me cast, to place in a splendid hall - that he has built over there. - - “If I were younger it would please me greatly. - - “My mother-in-law thanks you for your kind messages. Are you not - ashamed of slaughtering pheasants? It is a noble thing, forsooth, - to go out into the poultry yard and kill off the chickens!!! - Despite all, my friendship holds good, faithful and warm. Each day - I appreciate more thoroughly your loving hearts.” - - - _To the Same._ - - “PARIS, _2nd November 1867_.--How are you, my lord and my - lady? - - “How is your house? - - “Have you forgotten your French? - - “Have you forgotten your music? - - “Have you forgotten how to write? - - “Have you forgotten that you hear of nothing? - - “Have you forgotten that we have forgotten you? - - “Can you believe that we get on perfectly well without you? - - “Can you believe that you are.... - - “Out of fashion? - - “Good-night.” - - * * * * * - - “_2nd November._--Day of the dead, and, when one is dead, one is - dead for a long, long time.” - - - _To_ H. FERRAND.[34] - - “_22nd October 1867._--Dear Humbert,--Here is the letter you asked - me to return. Only a line to-day as I took laudanum last night and - have not had time yet to sleep it off. I had to get up this morning - to do some necessary business. - - “So now back to bed. A thousand greetings.” - - - _To_ M. EDOUARD ALEXANDRE. - - “ST PETERSBURG, _15th December 1867_.--Dear friends,--How - kind of you to send me your news; it seems neglectful of me not to - have done the same ere this. - - “I am loaded with favour by everyone--from the Grand Duchess down - to the least member of the orchestra. - - “They found out that the 11th was my birthday and sent me - delightful presents. In the evening I was asked to a banquet of - a hundred and fifty guests where, as you may imagine, I was well - toasted. Both public and press are most eulogistic. At the second - concert I was recalled six times after the _Symphonie Fantastique_, - which was executed with tremendous spirit and the last part of - which was encored. - - “What an orchestra! what _ensemble_! what precision! I wonder if - Beethoven ever heard anything like it. In spite of my pain, as - soon as I reach the conductor’s desk and am surrounded by these - sympathetic souls, I revive and I believe am conducting now as I - never did before. - - “Yesterday we did the second act of _Orfeo_, the _C. minor - Symphony_ and my _Carnaval Romain_. All was grandly done. The girl - who sang Orfeo in Russian had an unequalled voice and sang well too. - - “These poor Russians only knew Gluck from mutilated fragments, so - you may imagine my pleasure in drawing aside the curtain that hid - his mighty genius. - - “In a fortnight we are to do the first act of _Alcestis_. The Grand - Duchess has ordered that I am to be implicitly obeyed; I do not - abuse her order, but I use it. - - “She has asked me to go some day and read her _Hamlet_, and the - other day I happened to speak to her ladies-in-waiting, in her - presence, of Saint-Victor’s book and now they are all rushing off - to buy and admire _Hommes et Dieux_. - - “Here they love the beautiful; they live for literature and music; - they have within them a constant flame that makes them lose - consciousness of the frost and the snow. - - “Why am I so old, so worn-out? - - “Good-bye all. I love you and press your hands.” - - - _To_ M. AND MME MASSART. - - “ST PETERSBURG, _22/10 December 1867_.--Dear Madame - Massart,--I am ill with eighteen horse power; I cough like six - donkeys with the glanders; yet, before I retire to bed, I want to - write to you. - - “All goes well here. - - “At the fifth concert I want to give Beethoven’s _Choral Symphony_, - at least the first three parts, I am afraid to risk the vocal part - as I am not sufficiently sure of my chorus. - - “I have been invited to Moscow and the Grand Duchess permits me to - go. - - “The gentlemen of the semi-Asiatic capital propound the most - irresistible arguments _tace_ Wieniawski, who does not wish me to - jump at their offer. But I never could haggle and should be ashamed - to do so now. - - “I have just been interrupted by a message from the Grand Duchess. - She has a musical soirée to-night and wishes to hear the duet - from _Beatrice_. Her pianist and two singers know it perfectly in - French, so I have sent the score, with a message to them not to be - nervous as they will get through all right. - - “I shall go back to bed. I would tell you a lot more but I am tired - out and am not used to being up at such unreasonable hours. - - “It is half-past nine. I shall take some laudanum to be sure of - sleep. - - “You know that you are charming. But why the devil _are_ you so - charming? Farewell, I am your - - H. B.” - - - - _To the Same._ - - “_18th January 1868._ - - “DEAR MADAME MASSART,--I found quite a pile of letters on - my return from Moscow, among them one that gave me even greater - pleasure than yours; you can guess from whom it came. - - “Yours, nevertheless, rejoices me too. - - “The Michael Square is noiseless under its snowy mantle; crows, - pigeons and sparrows stir not; sledges have ceased to run; there is - a great funeral--that of Prince Dolgorouki--at which the Emperor - and all the Court were present. - - “My programme for Saturday is settled. - - “Oh! the joy when I lay down my baton at the end of _Harold_ and - say: - - “‘In three days I start for Paris.’ - - “I cannot stand this climate, although I felt better in Moscow. - Such enthusiasm there! - - “The first concert was in the Riding School and there were ten - thousand six hundred people present. And when they applauded the - Offertory from my _Requiem_, with its two-note chorus, I must own - that the uncommon religious feeling shown by that mighty crowd, - went to my heart. - - “Do not speak of a concert in Paris. - - “If I _gave_ one to my friends and spent three thousand francs over - it I should only be the more reviled by the press. - - “After seeing you I shall go right on to St Symphorien and thence - to Monaco to roll in the violets and sleep in the sun. - - “I suffer so continually, dear lady; my paroxysms of pain are so - frequent that I cannot think what is to become of me. - - “I do not want to die now, for I have something to live for.”[35] - - - _To_ WLADIMIR STASSOFF. - - “PARIS, _1st March 1868_.--I did not write sooner, I was - too ill. And now I want to tell you that I am leaving for Monaco at - seven this evening. - - “I cannot imagine why I do not die. - - “But since I am living, I am going to see my dear Nice, the rocks - of Villefranche and the sun of Monaco. - - “I hear that the sculptor is having three copies of my New York - bust cast; was it you who suggested getting one for the St - Petersburg Conservatoire? More can easily be made. - - “Address your letters to me to 4 Rue de Calais, Paris, and they - will be forwarded. - - “Oh! to think that I shall soon be lying on the marble seats of - Monaco, in the sun, by the sea!! - - “Do not be too severely just to me. Write me long letters in return - for my short ones; bethink you that I am ill, that your letters do - me good; don’t talk nonsense and don’t speak of my composing.... - - “My kindest regards to your charming sister-in-law and daughter and - to your brother. I can see them all so vividly before me. Write - soon. Your letter and the SUN will give me new life. - - “Unfortunate wight that you are! You live in the snow!” - - - _To the Same._ - - “PARIS, _April 1868_. - - “MY DEAR STASSOFF,--You call me _Monsieur_ Berlioz, both - you and Cui. I forgive you both! - - “I was nearly killed the other day. I went to Monaco sun-hunting - and, three days after in scrambling down the rocks, I fell head - first on to my face and bled so profusely that, for a long time, I - was unable to get up and go back to the hotel. - - “However, as I had taken my place in the omnibus to Nice, I was - bound to get up and go back there next day. - - “Hardly arrived there, I wished to see once more the terrace by - the sea, of which my recollection was so vivid. I went down and - sat there but, in changing my seat, again I fell on my face. Two - passers-by lifted me with great difficulty and took me to the Hotel - des Etrangers, where I was staying, which was close by. I was put - to bed and there I stayed, without a doctor, seeing no one but the - servants for a week. - - “Feeling a little better after my week’s seclusion and damaged as - I was, I took the train back to Paris. - - “My mother-in-law and servant exclaimed with horror on seeing me; - but now I have had a doctor and he has treated me so cleverly that, - after more than a month of it, I can barely walk, holding on to the - furniture. - - “My nose is nearly all right outside. - - “Would you kindly find out why my score of the _Trojans_ has not - been returned. I suppose the copying is finished and that it is no - longer needed. - - “I can write no more ... if I wait till I am better it may be a - long while.... Do write to me. It will be a real charity.” - - - _To_ AUGUSTE MOREL. - - “PARIS, _26th May 1868_.--I have been greatly tried and - find it still hard to write. My two falls, one at Monaco, the other - at Nice, have taken all my strength. - - “The traces are almost gone now, but my old trouble has come back - and I suffer more than ever. - - “I wish I could have seen you and Lecourt when I was near - Marseilles; I should have gone round that way had I not been in - such a sad state. - - “Yet to meet you would have upset me more than to see anyone else. - Few of my friends loved Louis as you did. I cannot forget it, so - you must forgive me.” - - - _To_ WLADIMIR STASSOFF. - - “PARIS, _21st August 1868_. - - “DEAR STASSOFF,--You see I leave out the _Monsieur_. - - “I have just come from Grenoble, where they had almost forced me to - go and preside at a sort of musical festival and to be present at - the unveiling of a statue of Napoleon I. - - “They ate and drank and did a hundred and fifty other things and I - felt so ill.... - - “They fetched me in a carriage and toasted me, but I could not - reply. The Mayor of Grenoble was full of compliments, he presented - me with a gilt crown, but I had to sit a whole hour at that banquet. - - “Next day I left and arrived home at eleven at night, more dead - than alive. - - “I feel good for nothing and I get such letters--asking me to - do impossibilities. They want me to say nice things of a German - artist, which is right enough since I agree thoroughly, but at the - expense of a Russian artist of whom I think well also and whom they - want to oust in favour of the German. - - “I cannot lend myself to it. What a devil of a world this is! - - “I feel that I am dying; I believe in nothing; but I long to see - you, you might perhaps cheer me up--you and Cui. I am beyond - measure bored and weary. All my friends are away in the country - or shooting. They ask me to go and visit them, but I have not the - spirit. - - “Write, I beg; as shortly as you will, but write! I still feel the - effects of my Monaco and Nice accidents. - - “If you are in St Petersburg write me even _six lines_, I shall be - so grateful. - - “You are so kind; show it now. - - “I press your hands.” - -Berlioz lived seven months longer. - -On returning from Russia he consulted a physician who asked: - -“Are you a philosopher?” - -“Yes,” he replied. - -“Then gather all the courage you can from philosophy, for you are -incurable.” - -He was evidently too worn and weak to take the Riviera journey alone. - -Although warmly welcomed and cared for at his hotel, his two falls -could not but use up his little remaining strength, and that little was -cruelly drained by the last journey to Grenoble--a strangely weird and -dramatic episode, a worthy conclusion to his stormy, overcast life. The -scene is well described by M. Bernard:-- - -“In a brilliantly lighted hall, hung with magnificent draperies, at a -richly spread table a gay crowd awaits the chief guest of the evening. - -“The curtains are torn aside, and a phantom appears. The ghost of -Banquo? No, the skeleton form of Berlioz, his face pale and thin, his -eyes vacant and wandering, his head trembling, his lips drawn in a -bitter smile. - -“They crowd around him and press his hands--those palsied hands that -have so often led the armies of music to victory. A crown is placed -upon his silver locks. - -“Vacantly he gazes round upon these fellow-citizens, gathered to do him -homage--sincere, but how belated!--mechanically he rises to reply to -words of which he has hardly grasped the meaning. - -“Suddenly a furious Alpine gale dashes down into the hall, tearing at -the curtains, extinguishing the lights; outside the squall whistles -shrilly, the lightning cuts the blackness of the clouds, casting -sinister gleams on the faces of the dumb and startled assembly. - -“Alone, amid the howls of the tempest, Berlioz stands, wrapped in -flashes of vivid green--the spirit of symphony--colossal musician, -whose apotheosis is heralded by Nature with her wildest, grandest -music.” - -That was the end. - -On Monday morning, the 8th March 1869, Hector Berlioz died. - -His funeral took place on the following Thursday at the Church of the -Trinity. - -The Institute sent a deputation, the band of the National Guard played -selections from his _Funeral Symphony_; on the coffin lay wreaths from -the St Cecilia Society, from the youths of Hungary, from the Russian -nobles, and from the town of Grenoble. - -He was dead--the atonement began. - - - - -INDEX - - -_Africaine, L’_, 277. - -_Alcestis_, 26, 231, 237, 285, 293. - -Alexandre, 249, 292. - -Aleyrac, d’, 18. - -Alizard, 52. - -Allard, 140. - -Ambros, Dr, 199. - -Amussat, 17, 192. - -Andrieux, 17, 19, 20. - -_Antony_, 136. - -_Arab Horse_, 18. - -_Armida_, 112, 282. - -Artot, 160. - -_Athalie_, 21. - -Aubré, d’, 85. - - -Balfe, 278. - -Ballanche, 141. - -Balzac, 202. - -Barbier, 142-3, 152. - -Batta, 160-1. - -Bauderali, Madame, 274. - -Beale, 214, 224. - -_Beatrice and Benedict_, 233-4, 238-40, 245, 248, 272. - -Beethoven, 39, 41, 60-2, 70, 78, 81, 143-4, 174, 194. - -Belloni, 200. - -Benazet, 227, 233, 240, 248. - -Benedict, 160. - -Ber, 231. - -Berlioz, Adèle, 217, 254. - - “ Dr, 2, 81, 140, 211. - - “ Louis, 140-1, 156, 189, 201, 206, 215, 217, - 220-3, 234, 237-8, 252, 269, 272, 275, 277, 281, 287-9. - - “ Madame, 30. - - “ Marie Recio, 222, 233, 236, 238, 249. - - “ Nanci, 10, 30, 217. - - “ Victor, 212. - -Bernard, Daniel, 272. - - “ General, 146, 148. - -Bertin, Armand, 146, 151, 155. - - “ “ 142, 146, 150, 202. - -Berton, 40. - -Bienaimé, 150. - -Bishop, Sir H., 210. - -Blanc, 151. - -Blanche, 274. - -Bloc, 57, 75, 76. - -Boïeldieu, 40, 79-81. - -Boissieux, 45. - -Bordogni, 149. - -Bouché, 187. - -Branchu, Madame, 17, 28. - -Broadwood, 224. - -Broderotti, 248. - -Brugnières, 59. - -Bulow, von, 234, 252. - -Byron, 97, 119, 139. - - -Capitaine, Mdlle., 169. - -_Carnaval Romain_, 153, 246. - -Carné, de, 62. - -Carvalho, 242, 244-5. - -Carus, Dr, 181. - -Castilblaze, 47-8. - -Catel, 40, 61. - -Cazalès, 62. - -Cécile, Admiral, 222. - -_Cellini, Benvenuto_, 142, 152-4, 223, 228. - -Charbonnel, 36-7. - -Charton-Demeur, Madame, 239-40, 243, 245, 270, 282-3. - -Châteaubriand, 23, 74. - -Chélard, 175-7. - -Chénié, 45. - -Cherubini, 26, 32, 38, 40, - 54-5, 57, 60, 66, 69, 70-1, 74, 93, 129, 146, 148-50, 190. - -_Childhood of Christ_, 201, 222, 226, 249. - -Chopin, 51, 133, 162, 205. - -Choral Symphony, 214, 293. - -_Cinq Mai_, 183. - -_Cleopatra_, 78-9. - -_Correspondant, Le_, 74, 78. - -Costa, Sir M., 49, 215, 223. - -Coste, 142. - -Crispino, 115, 116. - -Cui, 296, 298. - - -Dabadie, Madame, 80. - -_Damnation de Faust_, 75, 128, 200-2, 276, 285, 286. - -Damcke, 245, 270, 279, 290. - -Damrémont, General, 146 - -Dauverné, 166. - -_Death of Abel_, 33. - -_Death of Orpheus_, 40, 54-6. - -Delessert, 191. - -Dérivis, 17, 28, 59, 161. - -Deschamps, 133. - -Dessauer, 188. - -_Devin du Village_, 42. - -Dobré, Melle., 187. - -Dochler, 160. - -_Don Giovanni_, 49. - -Dorant, 10. - -Dorval, Madame, 136. - -Dumas, 135, 162. - -Duponchel, 149, 152-3. - -Dupont, 56-7, 59, 70. - -Duprez, 57, 161, 187. - - -Eckstein, d’, 74. - -Estelle, 6, 8, 120, 124, 211-12, 221, 256-271, 279, 282. - -_Estelle et Némorin_, 12, 21, 25. - -Emperor of Austria, 195. - - “ the French, 64, 234, 236-7, 242. - -Empress of Russia, 202. - - “ the French, 233-4, 237. - -Erard, Madame, 252, 273. - - -_Faust_, 73, 75, 77. - -Ferrand, 23, 28, 33, 58, 62, 128, 189, 272-3, 285, 292. - -Fétis, 49, 95, 132, 164. - -_Figaro_, 49. - -_Fingal’s Cave_, 178. - -Fleury, 100-1. - -Flotow, de, 274. - -_Francs-Juges_, 33, 54, 56, 58, 77, 83, 94, 136, 171. - -Frankoski, 159. - -Freyschütz, 46-7, 78, 171, 187. - -Friedland, 202. - - -_Gamester_, 21. - -Gardel, 38. - -Garrick, 49. - -Gasparin, de, 143-4, 148-9. - -Gasperini, 245, 274. - -Gatayes, 166. - -Gay-Lussac, 17. - -_Gazette Musicale_, 141-2. - -Génast, 176. - -Gervaert, 233. - -Gluck, 18, 20-1, 29, 41-2, 50, 62-3. - -Goethe, 73, 175. - -_God of the Christians_, 68. - -Gossec, 21. - -Goubeaux, 160. - -Gounet, 83, 133, 235. - -Gounod, 233, 274. - -Gras, Madame, 209. - -Grasset, 90. - -Grétry, 62. - -Grisi, 161. - -Gros, 28. - -Guédéonoff, 203-4. - -Guérin, 28. - -Guhr, 168-70, 175. - -Gye, 210. - - -Habeneck, 49, 59, 60, 93-4, 103, 147, 152, 163-7, 190. - -Halévy, 146. - -Hallé, 160-1. - -_Hamlet_, 50, 52, 73, 136. - -Handel, 62. - -_Harold_, 139, 142, 155, 171, 175, 185, 246. - -Haydn, 61. - -Heine, 183. - -Helen, Grand Duchess, 290, 292-4. - -Heller, Stephen, 18, 177, 252. - -Helmesberger, 286. - -Herbeck, 286. - -Hiller, Ferdinand, 81, 85, 93, 112, 127, 162, 169, 175, 288. - -Hogarth, 210. - -Hohenzollern-Hechingen, Prince von, 172, 246. - -Hortense, Queen, 110. - -Horwath, 197-8. - -Hotin, 27. - -Hummel, 176. - -Huguenots, 143. - -Hugo, Victor, 143, 151. - - -Imbert, 8. - -_Imperial Cantata_, 231. - -_Iphigenia in Tauris_, 18, 43, 210. - -Irish Melodies, 51, 94, 179. - - -Janin, Jules, 135, 157, 219. - -_Jean de Paris_, 80. - -_Journal des Débats_, 24, 63, 141. - -Jullien, 207-11. - - -_King Lear_, 106, 108, 112, 173, 178, 192, 246. - -King of Hanover, 206, 227. - - “ Prussia, 202, 206. - - “ Saxony, 128, 228. - -Klopstock, 119. - -Krebs, 186. - -Kreutzer, L., 245. - - “ R., 33, 40, 43, 49, 60. - - -Lablachk, 160. - -_La Captive_, 117. - -Lachner, 175. - -Lachnith, 48. - -Lafayette, 87. - -Larochefoucauld, 33, 54. - -Le Chuzeau, 31. - -Lecourt, 297. - -Lefevbre, 117. - -Légouvé, 154, 161. - -Lenz, 203. - -_Lélio_, 79, 117, 128, 130. - -Lesueur, 18, 19, 25, 28, 33, 39, 40, 47, 60, 62, 81. - -Le Tessier, 46. - -Lethière, 69. - -Levaillant, 67. - -Levasseur, 160. - -Lipinski, 182-3. - -Lindpaintner, 169-172, 174. - -Liszt, 51, 93, 133, 136-7, 140, - 154, 159, 173, 199, 200, 205, 220, - 228, 234, 236-7, 242, 252, 273, 279, 283. - -Lobe, 175-6. - -Louis Philippe, 87. - -Lubbert, 76. - -Lumley, 209. - -Lüttichau, von, 228. - -Lwoff, 203, 213. - - -Macready, 209. - -_Magic Flute_, 48, 50. - -Malibran, 90. - -Mangin, 244. - -Marié, 188. - -Marezeck, 210. - -Marmion, 5. - -Mars, Mdlle., 132. - -_Marseillaise_, 87, 166. - -Marschner, 176. - -_Martha_, 274. - -Marx, 75. - -Massart, Madame, 251, 277, 280, 284, 293. - -Masson, 22. - -_Medea_, 26. - -Méhul, 18. - -Mendelssohn, 101-2, 112, 114, 177, 183, 209. - -Mérimée, 251. - -Meyerbeer, 143, 206, 229, 277. - -Michaud, 63. - -Michel, 35. - -_Midsummer Night’s Dream_, 179. - -Milanollo, 169. - -Millevoye, 18. - -Moke, Marie Pleyel-, 85, 91-2, 95, 108. - -Moke, Madame, 91-2, 112. - -_Monde Dramatique_, 141. - -Montag, 176. - -_Montecchi_, 109. - -Montfort, 100, 112. - -Morel, 162, 191, 228, 252, 297. - -Mori, Mllde., 59. - -Morny, de, 242. - -Müller, 184-5. - -Munier, 123. - -Musard, 141. - - -Napoleon, Prince, 231. - -Nathan-Treillet, Madame, 167. - -Naudin, Mdlle., 161. - -Nernst, 202. - -Nicolaï, 194. - -_Nina_, 2, 18. - -_Noces des Fées_, 118. - -Noailles, de, 91. - - -Œdipus, 35, 45. - -Ortigue, d’, 159, 180, 213, 215, 219, 236, 245. - -_Orpheus_, 237. - - -Paccini, 110. - -Paër, 40, 60, 108. - -Paganini, 108, 138, 155-8, 125. - - “ Achille, 155. - -Panseron, 59. - -Parish-Alvars, 183. - -Pasdeloup, 283. - -Perne, 26. - -Perrin, 285. - -Persuis, 18. - -Pfifferari, 117. - -Piccini, 21. - -Pillet, 164, 167, 187. - -Pingard, 67-8, 71. - -Pischek, 169, 195. - -Planché, 210. - -Pleyel, 102. - - “ Marie (_see_ Moke). - -Pons, de, 24-5, 31-2, 44. - -Pohl, Madame, 246. - -Pouilly, Madame, 47. - - -_Queen Mab_, 114, 165, 184. - -_Quotidienne_, 63. - - -Raday, Count, 197. - -Recio, Marie, 163. - -Reeves, Sims, 209, 210. - -Régnault, 71. - -Reicha, 33, 38, 39. - -Remusat, de, 162. - -_Renovateur_, 141-2. - -Reissiger, 182. - -_Requiem_, 166, 180, 183, 190, 287, 294. - -_Resurrexit_, 25, 57-8, 118. - -_Revue Européenne_, 62-3, 119. - - “ _Musicale_, 95, 132. - -Reyer, 286. - -Robert, 14, 16. - -Rocquemont, 191. - -_Rob Roy_, 117. - -Romberg, 190, 203. - -_Romeo and Juliet_, 49, 52, 71, 158-9, 183, 203, 227, 246, 286. - -Rothschild, 156. - -Rossini, 41, 62-3. - -Rouget de Lisle, 87. - -Rousseau, 42. - -Rubini, 161. - - -Sacchini, 35. - -Saint-Félix, 133. - - “ Léger, 35. - - “ Saëns, 282, 289. - -Salieri, 17, 29. - -Sand, Madame, 288. - -_Sappho_, 40. - -_Sardanapalus_, 89, 93-4, 136. - -Saxe-Weimar, Grand Duke, 177, 186, 206, 227, 248. - -Saxe-Weimar, Grand Duchess, 246 - -Sayn-Wittgenstein, Princess von, 242. - -Schiller, 175-6. - -Schilling, Dr, 170-2. - -Schlesinger, 130, 140. - -Schlick, 102-3. - -Schoelcher, 161. - -Schott, 168. - -Schumann, 180. - - “ Madame, 181. - -Schutter, 130. - -Scribe, 142. - -Seifriz, 246-7. - -Shakespeare, 50, 60, 219. - -Smart, Sir G., 210. - -Smithson, Henriette, 50, 52, - 58, 72-3, 82, 84, 92, 129-136, - 140, 156, 163, 217-20, 227, 250. - -Snel, 163. - -Spiegel, Baron von, 176. - -Spohr, 78. - -Spontini, 33, 41, 50, 110, 134, 284. - -Spontini, Madame, 273. - -Stassoff, 295-7. - -Steinway, 291. - -Stolz, Madame, 187. - -_Stratonice_, 18. - -Strakosch, 258. - -Strauss, 191. - -Suat, 253. - -_Symphonie Fantastique_, 75, 94, 117, 124, 136, 140, 143, 155, 292. - - -Täglichsbeck, 173. - -Tajan-Rogé, 207. - -Tamburini, 161. - -Talma, 21. - -Tannhäuser, 236. - -Tasso, 68. - -_Tempest_, 76-7, 95. - -_Te Deum_, 228. - -Thalberg, 160, 183. - -Thénard, 17. - -Thomas, 162. - -Tilmant, 191. - -Topenheim, Baron von, 170. - -_Trojans, The_, 224, 232-3, 237, 241-5, 267, 269, 274, 276. - -Troupenas, 132. - - -Vaillant, Marshal, 251-2. - -Valentino, 22-3, 43-4. - -Vanderheufel-Duprez, Madame, 249. - -Vernet, Horace, 98, 101-2, 106, 113, 118, 124, 127. - -Vernet, Mdlle., 117, 125-6. - -Viardot, Madame, 237, 249. - -Vieuxtemps, 205. - -Vigny, de, 141-2. - -Vogt, 18. - -Volney, de, 67. - - -Wagner, 182, 228-9, 236-7. - -Wailly, de, 142, 152, 219. - -Walewski, Count, 237. - -_Walpurgis Nacht_, 179, 180. - -_Waverley_, 37, 54. - -Weber, 41, 46-8, 60, 62, 136. - -Wielhorski, Count, 203. - -Wieniawski, 294. - -_World’s Last Day_, 118. - - -X., de, 144-8, 151. - - -Zinkeisen, 184. - - -FOOTNOTES: - -[A] From original drawings by J. Y. DAWBARN. - -[1] Berlioz’ “burnt” does not necessarily mean that they were put in -the fire, but simply that they were relegated to a portfolio limbo, -whence they sometimes emerged to be used again with fine results. - -[2] Gluck and Piccini were of entirely opposite schools. - -[3] Chopin and Liszt once spent a whole night hunting for him in the -fields. - -[4] Of him more later on. - -[5] Between these two letters Berlioz had a meeting with Miss Smithson, -who told him frankly that his pretensions were impossible. - -[6] _Le Correspondant._ - -[7] Moore’s “Irish Melodies.” - -[8] In his letters he says that Mademoiselle Moke was present with her -mother.--ED. - -[9] A play upon his red hair. - -[10] Mendelssohn’s letter of 29th March 1831 gives a very severe -description of Berlioz, under the initial “Y,” showing how utterly out -of sympathy the two young men were, and how incapable at that time -Mendelssohn was of reciprocating Berlioz’s whole-hearted appreciation. - -Later on, when they met in Leipzig, the situation improved. - -[11] It was Diano Marina, near Oneglia. - -[12] Gave popular concerts of dance-music and introduced the galop. - -[13] It was really written by Léon de Wailly: Alfred de Vigny merely -revised it. - -[14] In 1848. - -[15] Liszt afterwards mounted it successfully at Weimar. - -[16] Since writing this, I conducted the first four parts of it in -London and never did I have a more brilliant reception, nor was I -better received by the press. (In a letter to Ferrand he says: “I am -quite pleased with my success. _Romeo and Juliet_ made people cry. I -cannot go into the details of my three concerts, but I may say that the -new score made some notable conversions. An Englishman bought my baton -from Schlesinger’s servant for 150 francs. The press has treated me -splendidly.”) - -[17] Mademoiselle Recio. - -[18] I had not then heard the _Midsummer Night’s Dream_. - -[19] Composed in 1834. - -[20] Ferrand was in Sardinia. - -[21] My intimate friend, now director of the Marseilles Conservatoire. - -[22] [It is an extraordinary thing that the end never _is_ audible; -applause always begins too soon and the curious and most effective -treatment of the final chords is lost.] - -[23] _Jerusalem_, given in Paris in November. - -[24] Alas, I succumbed! My five-act opera _The Trojans_ is the result. - -[25] Madame Berlioz. - -[26] In a letter to Ferrand, Berlioz gives his reason, which was that -Madame Viardot’s failing voice made too many cuts and alterations -necessary, thereby changing the whole form of the opera. However, -to please Count Walewski he consented to be present at some of the -rehearsals and help with his advice. - -[27] Announcing Madame Berlioz’ death at St Germain-en-Laye. - -[28] [It was actually accepted. See letter to Ferrand.] - -[29] [This is unjust to Carvalho, who risked much and really had not -the wherewithal to comply with his exacting colleague’s demands.] - -[30] Berlioz had been Companion since 1839. - -[31] An untranslateable pun. _On vous demande comment vous avez passé -la nuit jamais comment vous passez l’ennui._ - -[32] Written on his visit to Madame Fournier. - -[33] Steinway. - -[34] The last letter. - -[35] Or “on.” Berlioz’ phrase admits of either interpretation. - - - - - - - - -End of the Project Gutenberg EBook of The Life of Hector Berlioz as written -by himself in his Letters and Memoirs, by Hector Berlioz - -*** END OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE LIFE OF HECTOR BERLIOZ *** - -***** This file should be named 62668-0.txt or 62668-0.zip ***** -This and all associated files of various formats will be found in: - http://www.gutenberg.org/6/2/6/6/62668/ - -Produced by Chuck Greif and the Online Distributed -Proofreading Team at https://www.pgdp.net (This book was -produced from scanned images of public domain material -from the Google Books project.) - - -Updated editions will replace the previous one--the old editions -will be renamed. - -Creating the works from public domain print editions means that no -one owns a United States copyright in these works, so the Foundation -(and you!) can copy and distribute it in the United States without -permission and without paying copyright royalties. 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