Chapter X: Part 10

“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.