Chapter V: Part 5

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.