Chapter VIII: Part 8

“_14th January._--Jullien has landed us all in a dreadful bog, but
don’t mention it in Paris, as we must not spoil his credit. It
is not the Drury Lane venture that has ruined him; that was done
before; now he has gone off to the provinces and is making a lot of
money with his promenade concerts, while we take a fair amount each
night at the theatre, none of which goes into our pockets, for _we
are not paid at all_. Only the orchestra, chorus, and work-people
are paid every week in order to keep the thing going somehow.

“If Jullien does not pay me on his return, I shall arrange with
Lumley to give some concerts in Her Majesty’s Theatre, for there is
a good opening here since poor Mendelssohn’s death.”

* * * * *

“_12th February 1848._--My music has taken with the English as
fire to gunpowder. The _Rakoczy_ and _Danse des Sylphes_ were
encored. Everyone of importance, musically, was at Drury Lane
for my concert, and most of the artists came to congratulate me.
They had expected something diabolic, involved, incomprehensible.
Now we shall see how they agree with our Paris critics. Davison
himself wrote the _Times_ critique; they cut half of it out from
want of space; still the remainder has had its effect. Old Hogarth
of the _Daily News_ was truly comical: ‘My blood is on fire,’
said he; ‘never have I been excited like this by music.’<span
class="lftspc">”</span>

Jullien, coming finally to the end of his resources, was obliged to call a council of war. It consisted of Sir Henry Bishop, Sir George Smart, Planché, Gye, Marezeck, and myself.

He talked wildly of the different operas he proposed to mount, and finally came to _Iphigenia in Tauris_, which, like many others, is promised yearly by the London managers. Impatient at my silence he turned upon me:

“Confound it all! surely you know that?”

“Certainly I know it. What do you want me to tell you?”

“How many acts there are, how many characters, what voices and, above all, the style of setting and costume.”

“Take a pen and paper and I will tell you. Four acts, three men: Orestes, baritone; Pylades, tenor; Thoas, high bass; a grand woman’s part, Iphigenia, soprano; a small one, Diana, mezzo-soprano. The costumes you will not like, unfortunately; the Scythians are ragged savages on the shores of the Black Sea; Orestes and Pylades are shipwrecked Greeks. Pylades alone has two dresses--in the fourth act he comes in in a helmet----”

“A helmet!” cried Jullien, excitedly; “we are saved! I’ll write to Paris for a golden helmet with a pearl coronet, and an ostrich plume as long as my arm. We’ll have forty performances.”

“Prodigious!” as good Dominie Sampson says.

Needless to say, nothing happened. Reeves, the divine tenor, laughed at the bare idea of singing Pylades, and Jullien quitted London shortly after, leaving his theatre to go to pieces.

XXXI

MY FATHER’S DEATH--MEYLAN

Already saddened on my return to Paris by the havoc and ruin caused by the Revolution, it was but my usual fate to suffer in addition, the terrible sorrow of losing my father.

My mother had died ten years before, and, bitter as was that blow, it was but light in comparison with the wrench of parting with this dearly loved and sympathetic friend.

We had so much in common, our tastes were similar in so many ways, and, since he had gladly acknowledged himself in the wrong over my choice of a profession, we had been so entirely at one.

Ah! that I could have gratified his ardent wish to hear my _Requiem_, but it was not to be.

I pass over the sorrow of my home-coming, the meeting with my grief-worn sisters, the sight of his empty chair, of his watch--still living, though he was dead!

A strange wish to indulge the luxury of grief crept over me; I must drink this wormwood cup to the dregs; I must revisit Meylan--the early home of my Mountain Star--and live over again my early love and sorrow.

Even now my heart beats faster as I recall my journey. Thirty-three years ago and I, a ghost, come back to my early haunts! As I climb through the vineyards the thoughts, the aspirations, the desires of my childish days crowd in upon me.

Here did I sit with my father, playing _Nina_ to him on my flute; there did Estelle stand.

I turn and take in the whole picture; that blessed house, the garden, the valley, the river, and the far-off Alpine glaciers.

Once more I am young; life and love--a glorious poem--lie before me; on my knees I cry to the hills, the valleys, the heavens: “Estelle! Estelle!”

Bleed, my heart, bleed! but leave me still the power to suffer!

I rise and wander on, noting each familiar point. Here is her cherry tree; there still flowers the plant of everlasting pea from which she plucked blossoms. Sweet plant! bloom on in thy solitude! Good-bye! good-bye!

Good-bye to my childhood, to my lost love--Time sweeps me on; Stella! Stella!

The cold hand of Death lies heavy on my heart, yet around me are soft sunlight, solitude, and silence.

* * * * *

Next day I asked my cousin Victor:

“Do you know Madame F----?”

“The lovely Estelle D----, do you mean?”

“Yes, I loved her so when I was twelve--I love her yet.”

“You idiot,” said Victor, laughing, “she is fifty-one, and has a son of twenty-two.”

He laughed again, and I laughed too, but mine was the cry of despair, an April gleam through the rain.

“Nevertheless I want to see her.”

“Hector, I beg you will do no such thing. You will make a fool of yourself and upset her.”

“I want to see her,” I repeated doggedly, with clenched teeth.

“Fifty-one!” he cried again, “you had much better keep your bright, fresh, youthful memory of her.”

“Well, then, I will write.”

He gave me a pen, and subsided into an armchair in fits of laughter, while my incoherent, despairing letter was composed. I sent it, but no reply came. When next I go to Grenoble I mean to see her.

* * * * *

In May 1851 I was commissioned by Government to judge instruments at the London Exhibition, and wrote to Joseph d’Ortigue in June 1851--

“I want to tell you of the extraordinary impression made on me by the singing of six thousand Charity School children in St Paul’s Cathedral. It is an annual affair, and is, beyond compare, the most imposing, the most _Babylonian_ ceremony I ever witnessed.

“It was a realisation of part of my dreams, and proof positive of the unknown power of vast musical masses.

“This fact is no more understood on the Continent than is Chinese music.

“By-the-bye, France is easily first in the manufacture of musical instruments. Erard, Sax and Vuillaume lead; all the others are of the reed-pipe and tin-kettle tribe.”

_To_ LWOFF.

“_January 1852._--It is impossible to do anything in Paris, so next
month I shall go back to England, where, at least, the _wish to
love music_ is real and persistent. If I can be of the least use to
you in my newspaper articles, commend me, dear master. It will be
a pleasure to tell our few earnest French readers of the great and
good things that are done in Russia. It is a debt I shall gladly
pay, since I never shall forget the warmth of my reception and the
kindness of your Empress and your great Emperor’s family.

“What a pity he himself does not like music!”

_To_ J. D’ORTIGUE.

“LONDON, _March 1852_.--Just a line to tell you of my
colossal success. Recalled I know not how often, and applauded
both as composer and conductor. This morning, in the _Times_, the
_Morning Post_, the _Advertiser_, and others, such effusions as
never were written before about me! Beale is wild with joy, for it
really is an event in the musical world. The orchestra at times
surpassed all that I have heard in _verve_, delicacy and power.

“All the papers except the _Daily News_ puff me, and now I am
preparing Beethoven’s _Choral Symphony_, which, so far, has been
sadly mutilated here.

“But can you believe that all the critics are against the _Vestal_,
of which we performed the first part yesterday?

“I am utterly cast down at this _lapsus judicii_--am I not
weak?--and am ashamed of having succeeded at such a cost. Why can I
not remember that the good, the beautiful, the true, the false, the
ugly, are not the same to everyone?”

* * * * *

“_May 1852._--You speak of the expenses of our concerts; they are
enormous. Every impresario in London expected to lose this year.
In fact Beale, in the programme of the last concert, actually told
the public that the _Choral Symphony_ rehearsals had swallowed more
than a third of the subscription.

“However, it has had a miraculous effect, and my success as
conductor was great also; indeed, it was such an event in the
musical world that people greatly doubted whether we should carry
it through.”

* * * * *

“_June 1852._--I leave to-morrow. How I shall regret my glorious
chorus and orchestra! Those beautiful women’s voices!

“If only you had been here to hear our second performance of the
_Choral Symphony_. The effect in that enormous Exeter Hall was most
imposing.

“Paris once more! where I must forget these melodious joys in my
daily task of critic--the only one left me in my precious native
land!

“A naïf Birmingham amateur was heard the other day regretting
that I had not been engaged for the Birmingham Festival. ‘For I
hear,’ said he, ‘that Berlioz really is better than Costa!!!’<span
class="lftspc">”</span>

_To_ LOUIS BERLIOZ.

“1852.--You say you are going mad! You must actually _be_ mad to
write me such letters in the midst of the strenuous fatigue of my
present life.

“In your last letter from Havana you say you will arrive home with
a hundred francs. Now you say you owe forty. Now remember! I shall
take no notice in future of the nonsense you talk.

“You chose your own profession--a hard one, I grant you, but the
hardest part is over. Only five more months, and you will be in
port for six months studying, after which you will be able to earn
your own living.

“I am putting aside money for your expenses during those six
months. I can do no more.

“What is this about torn shirts? Six weeks in Havana, and all your
clothes ruined! At that rate you will want dozens of shirts every
five months. You must be laughing at me.

“Please weigh your language in writing to me. I do not like your
present style. Life is not strewn with roses, and I can give you no
career but _that which you yourself chose_. It is too late to alter
now.”

_To_ J. D’ORTIGUE.

“_January 1854._--Yes, dear d’Ortigue, you are right. It is my
ungovernable passion for Art that is the cause of all my trouble,
all my real suffering. Forgive me for letting you read between the
lines. I knew it would hurt you, and yet I could not hold back the
words that burnt me, although I might have known that your opinions
on Art would be in accord with your religious feelings.

“You know that I love the beautiful and the true, but I have
another love quite as ardent--the love of love.

“And when for some idea, some misunderstanding, I feel that my love
may be lessened, something within me bursts asunder, and I cry like
a child with a broken toy.

“I know it is puerile, but it is true, although I do my best
to cure myself. Like a true Christian, you have punished me by
returning good for evil.

“Your notes are capital, and I think I shall be able to use them,
though never did I feel less in the mood for writing.

“I cannot make a beginning. And I am sad--so sad! Life is slipping
away. I long to _work_, and am obliged to _drudge_ in order to
live. Adieu, adieu.”

XXXII

POOR OPHELIA

I would I were done with these wearisome reminiscences! When I have written a few pages more I shall have said enough to give a fair sketch of the mill-round of thought, work and sorrow wherein I am fated to turn, until I cease to turn for ever. However long may still be the days of my pilgrimage, they can but resemble those that are past. The same stony roads, the same Slough of Despond, with here and there a blessed oasis of

rest or a mighty rock that I may painfully climb, thereon to forget, in the evening sunshine, the cold rains of the plain beneath. So slow are changes in men and things that one would need to live two hundred years to mark any difference.

Nanci, my sister, died of cancer, after six months’ frightful suffering. Adèle, worn out with the fatigue and anxiety of nursing, nearly followed her.

Why had no doctor the humanity to put an end to that awful martyrdom with a little chloroform? They administer it to avoid the pain of an operation that lasts, perhaps, an hour, and they refuse it when they know cure to be impossible, to spare months of torture, when death would be the supreme good. Even savages are more humane.

But no doubt my sister would have refused the boon had it been offered. She would have said, “God’s will be done!” Would not God’s will have been as well interpreted by a calm, swift death as by these months of useless agony?

* * * * *

My wife, too, died--mercifully without much suffering.

After four years’ death-in-life, unable to speak or move, she passed quietly away at Montmartre on the 3rd March 1854. Her last hours were sweetened by Louis’ presence. He was home on leave from Cherbourg four days before she died.

I had been out for two hours when one of her nurses came to tell me all was over, and I returned but to draw aside the shroud and kiss her pale forehead.

Her portrait, painted in the days of her radiant beauty, and which I had given her the year before, hung above her bed, looking calmly down on the poor shell that had once enshrined her brilliant genius.

My sufferings were indescribable. They were intensified by one feeling that has always been the hardest for me to bear--that of pity.

Again and again I went over Henriette’s troubles and their crushing weight bore me to the earth. Her losses before our marriage, her accident, the fiasco of her second appearance, her lost beauty and renown, our home quarrels, her jealousy--not, in the end, without cause--our separation, her son’s absence, her helplessness and dreary years of retrospection, of contemplating approaching death and oblivion.

Oh, the pity of it! It turns my brain.

Shakespeare! Shakespeare! Thou alone couldst have understood us both, thou alone couldst have pitied us--poor children of Art--loving, yet wounding each other through our love! Thou art our God, if that other God sits aloof in sublime indifference to our torments. Thou art our father. Help us! Save us!

De profundis ad te clamo!

Alone I went about my sorrowful task.

The Protestant pastor lived at the other side of Paris and I went to him that evening. As my cab passed the Odéon I thought of how, in that theatre twenty-six years before, my poor dead wife had burst like a meteor upon Paris and had come forward, trembling and awed at her own success, to receive the plaudits of all that was best and brightest in France. Ophelia! Ophelia!

Through that door I saw her pass to a rehearsal of _Othello_. I was nothing to her then. She would have thought the prophet mad who pointed out a worn, distraught, unknown youth and said:

“Behold your husband!”

Yet he it is, my poor Ophelia, he who loved and suffered with you, who tends you on this last long journey.

“... Forty thousand brothers
Could not, with all their quantity of love,
Make up my sum.”

Shakespeare! Shakespeare! The waters have gone over me. Father! Father! where art thou?

* * * * *

Next day, out of love for me, came d’Ortigue, Brizeux, Léon de Wailly, some artists brought by good Baron Taylor and other kind friends to accompany Henriette to her last rest. Twenty-five years earlier all intellectual Paris would have been there--now, he, who loved her and had not the courage to go with her to the little Montmartre God’s-acre, sits and weeps alone in her deserted garden, and her young son wanders afar on the dreary ocean.

They turned her face towards the north, to that England she never saw again, and her humble grave bears only--

Henriette Constance Berlioz-Smithson, born at Ennis, Ireland, died at Montmartre, 3rd March 1854.

The papers barely noticed her death, but Jules Janin remembered and wrote in the _Débats_:

“These stage divinities how soon they pass!

“How short a time it seems since we sat with Juliet on that balcony
above the Verona road. Juliet, so fair, so ethereal, listening
dreamily as Romeo speaks, her golden voice vibrating with the
undying poetry of Shakespeare, the whole world bound by her magic
spells!

“She was barely twenty, this Miss Smithson, and, without knowing
it, she was a poem, a passion, a revolution--By her absolute truth
she conquered.

“She it was who gave the lead to Dorval, Malibran, Victor Hugo and
Berlioz. To her Delacroix owed his conception of sweet Ophelia.

“Now she is dead and her dream of glory--that glory which passes so
rapidly--is over and done.

“In my young days they used to sing a funeral dirge to Juliet,
wherein recurred, like an old Greek chorus, the heart-breaking
refrain, ‘Throw flowers! Throw flowers!’

“‘Juliet is dead. Throw flowers!
Death lies upon her, softly as frost on April grass. Throw flowers!
Her love song is a funeral knell. Throw flowers!
Her marriage feast the feast of Death. Throw flowers!
Her marriage blossoms deck her tomb. Throw flowers!’”

Liszt wrote from Weimar as only he can write:

“She inspired you, you loved and sang of her. Her work is done!”

_To_ LOUIS BERLIOZ.

“_6th March 1854._--My poor dear Louis,--You know all. I am alone
and writing to you in the large sitting-room next to her deserted
bedroom. I have just been to the cemetery where I laid two wreaths
upon her grave--one for you and one for myself. The servants are
still here and are arranging things for the sale; I want to realise
as much as possible for you.

“I have kept her hair.

“You will never know how much we made each other suffer; our very
suffering bound us one to the other. I could neither live with her
nor without her.

“Alexis and I talked much of you yesterday. How I wish you were
more rational! It would make me so happy to feel that you were sure
of yourself.

“I shall be able to do more for you now than has hitherto been
possible, but I shall take every precaution to prevent your
squandering money. Alexis agrees that I am right.

“At present I am penniless and shall be for at least six months; I
must pay the doctor and the sale will bring in but little. The King
of Saxony’s director wishes me to be in Dresden next month and I
shall have to borrow money for my journey.”

* * * * *

“_23rd March._--Your letter is an unexpected pleasure, dear boy.
With seventy francs a month you can easily save, if you give up
your habit of squandering money. Tell me whether you can get back
the watch you pawned at Havre. My father gave it to you. If you
cannot, I will buy you another. I have had a watch chain made for
you of your mother’s hair; keep it carefully. I also had a bracelet
made for my sister, the rest of the hair I shall keep.

“Did you see Jules Janin’s touching words on your poor mother and
his exquisite reference to my _Romeo_ ‘Throw flowers?’ I hope for
another letter from you before Saturday.

“God grant that my German trip may bring in something! The
Montmartre house is not let and I may have to pay rent there a year
longer.”

* * * * *

What more can I say of the two great passions that influenced
my life? One was a childhood’s memory--yet not to be despised
since, with my love for Estelle, awoke my love of nature. The
other--coming in my manhood with my worship of Shakespeare--took
possession of me and overwhelmed me completely. Love of Art and the
artist intermingled, each acting upon and intensifying the other.

Those who cannot understand this will still less understand my
vague poetic longings at the scent of a lovely rose, the sight of a
beautiful harp. Estelle was the rose that bloomed alone, Henriette
the harp that shared my music, my joys, my sorrows and of which
alas! I snapped so many, many strings!

_To_ LOUIS BERLIOZ.

“_October 1854._--I am sad this morning, dear Louis. I dreamt that
we were walking--you and I--in the garden at La Côte, and not
knowing exactly where you are, my dream troubles me.

“I have some news that will not, I think, surprise you. Two months
ago I married again.

“I could not live alone, neither could I desert the woman who, for
fourteen years, has been my companion.

“My uncle and all my friends agree with me.

“I need not tell you that your interests are safe. If I die first
my wife will have but a quarter of my small fortune and even that I
know she intends to leave to you.

“If you still have any painful thoughts of Mademoiselle Recio I
know you will hide them for my sake.

“We were married very quietly without fuss or mystery. If you
mention this in your letters, write nothing that I cannot show to
my wife; I must have no cloud in my home. But your own heart will
tell you what to do.

“Admiral Cécile tells me he has received your letter. You cannot
enter the Marines until the end of your three years’ cruise.

“I am overwhelmed with rehearsals and arrangements for producing my
new work, the _Childhood of Christ_. It bristles with difficulties.

“Good-bye, dear Louis.”

XXXIII

DEAD SEA FRUIT

The end of my career is in sight, or if not the end, yet are my feet set on the steep slope leading to the goal; worn and tired, I am consumed by a burning fire that sometimes rages with such violence as to frighten me.

I begin to know French, to write fairly a page of verse, prose or score; I love an orchestra, and can direct it; I worship Art in every form. But I belong to a nation that cares for none of these things. Parisians are barbarians; not one rich man in ten has a library, no one buys books--they hire feeble novels at a penny a volume from circulating libraries--this is sufficient mental food for all classes. For a few francs a month they hire from the music shops the flat and dreary compositions with which they overflow.

What have I to do with Paris? That Paris--the apotheosis of industrialism in Art--that casts a scornful eye upon me, holding me only too honoured in fulfilling my calling of pamphleteer, for which alone, it holds, I came into the world. I _know_ what I could do with dramatic music, but to try it would be both useless and dangerous.

There is no suitable theatre; I must be absolute dictator of a grand orchestra; I must have the eager good-will of all, from prima-donna to scene-shifter; my theatre must be a gigantic musical instrument.

I could play it.

But this will never be; it would give too much scope to the cabals of my foes, and not only should I have to face the hatred of my critics but also the vindictive fury caused by my original style.

People would naturally ask, “If he becomes popular, where will our compositions be?”

I proved this at Covent Garden, where a crew of Italians nearly wrecked _Benvenuto Cellini_ by hissing from beginning to end. Costa was credited with this cabal, since I had fallen foul of him in newspaper articles for the liberties he took with the scores of the great masters. However, guilty or not, he knew how to quiet my doubts by doing his best to help me during my rehearsals.

Indignant at my treatment, the artists of London tried, unsuccessfully, to arrange a testimonial concert for me, and through my good friend Beale offered me a present of two hundred guineas, the subscription list being headed by Messrs Broadwood. Although greatly moved at the kindly generosity of the present, I was unable to accept it. French ideas would not permit.

For three years I have been worried by the vision of a grand opera to which I want to write both words and music, as I have done in the _Childhood of Christ_.

So far I have resisted temptation. May I hold out until the end![24]

To me the subject is magnificent, soul-stirring, which means that the Parisians would find it flat and wearisome.

Even if I could believe they might like it, where should I find a woman with beauty, voice, dramatic talent and fiery soul to fill the chief part? The very thought of hurling myself once more against the obstacles raised by the crass stupidity of my opponents makes my blood boil. The shock of our collision would be too dangerous, for I feel I could kill them all like dogs.

Even from concert-giving in Paris I am excluded, for, thanks to the machinations of my enemies in the Conservatoire, the Minister of the Interior at the prize-giving took occasion to state that in future the hall of the Conservatoire (the only possible one for my purpose) would be lent to _no one_. The no one could only be me, for, with two or three exceptions in twenty years, I was the only one who so used it.

Although most of the executants in this celebrated society are my friends, they are overborne by a hostile chief and a small clique; my compositions, therefore, are never given. Once, six or seven years ago, they did ask me for some excerpts from _Faust_, then tried to damn them by sandwiching them between Beethoven’s _C minor Symphony_ and Spontini’s finale to the _Vestal_. Fortunately they were disappointed, the Sylph scene was enthusiastically encored; but Girard, who had conducted the whole thing clumsily and colourlessly, pretended he could not find the place, so it was not repeated.

After that they avoided my works like the plague.

Of all the millionaires in Paris none thinks of doing anything for music. Paganini’s example was not followed, and the great artist’s gift to me stands alone.

No; a composer of classical music must be absolutely independent or must resign himself to all the miseries from which I suffered--to incomplete rehearsals, to inconvenient concert halls, to checks of every foreseen and unforeseen kind, and to the rapacity of the hospital tax-gatherers, who seize one-eighth of the _gross_ receipts. Usually I am willing and anxious to make every possible sacrifice, but sometimes occasions arise when such sacrifices cease to be generous and become criminal.

Two years ago, when there was still some hope of my wife’s recovery, and therefore expenses were greatly increased, I dreamt one night of a symphony.

On waking I could still recall nearly all the first movement, an allegro in A minor. As I moved towards my writing-table to put it down, I suddenly thought:

“If I do this I shall be drawn on to compose the rest, and, since my ideas always expand, it will end by being enormously long; it will take me three or four months; I shall write no articles, and my income will fail. When the symphony is written I shall, weakly, have it copied and so incur a debt of a thousand or twelve hundred francs.

“Then I shall be impelled to give a concert that it may be heard; the receipts will hardly equal half the expenditure, and I shall lose money. I have not got it. My poor invalid will be without necessary comforts, and my son’s expenses on board ship will not be met.”

With a shudder of horror I threw aside my pen, saying:

“To-morrow I shall have forgotten the symphony.”

But no! Next night that obstinate motif returned more clearly than before--I could even see it written out. I started up in feverish agitation, humming it over and--again my decision held me back, and I put the temptation aside. I fell asleep and next morning my symphony was gone for ever.

“Coward!” cries the young enthusiast, “brave all and write! Ruin yourself! Dare everything! What right have you to push back into oblivion a work of art that stretches out to you its piteous hands crying for the light of day?”

Ah, youth, youth! never hast thou suffered as I suffer, else wouldst thou understand and be silent.

Never was I backward, when I stood alone, to bear the brunt of my own actions, never did I fail when my wife stood beside me, alert and hopeful, to help me on, to face with me privation and suffering in the cause of Art. But when she lay half dead, a doctor and three nurses in attendance, when I knew that my musical venture _must_ end in disaster, was I cowardly to hold back? Did I not do more honour to my divine goddess, Music, in crediting her with sweet reasonableness than in treating her as an all-devouring Moloch, greedy for human victims?

If I have lately been carried away in writing my trilogy _The Childhood of Christ_, it is that I no longer have these heavy calls upon me, and also that, owing to my warm and generous reception in Germany, I can count upon the performance of my works.

Since writing this, M. Benazet of Baden has invited me several times to conduct the annual festival there, and, with unequalled generosity, has given me _carte blanche_ in the engagement and payment of my performers.

Each year Germany receives me more cordially; I have been there four times during the last eighteen months.

So interested were the blind King of Hanover and his Antigone, the Queen, in my rehearsals that they would appear at eight o’clock in the morning and sometimes stay till noon, as the King said:

“In order the better to get at the heart of my meaning and to grasp more thoroughly my new ideas.”

How warmly, too, he spoke of my _King Lear_--of the storm, the prison scene, the fateful sorrows of sweet Cordelia.

“I did not believe there was anything so beautiful in music,” he said, “but you have enlightened me. And how you conduct? I cannot see you but I feel it. I owe much to Providence,” he added, simply; “this love of music is a compensation for all I have lost.”

I never saw Henriette in that part, which was her best, but from her recital of some scenes I can imagine what it must have been.

On my last visit to Hanover the Queen asked me to include two pieces from _Romeo_ in my programme, and the King desired me to return next winter to superintend a theatrical performance of the same work, allowing me to requisition artists from Brunswick, Hamburg, and even Dresden.

It was the same with the Grand Duke of Saxe-Weimar, who said, as I took my leave:

“M. Berlioz, shake hands with me and remember my theatre is always open to you.”

M. de Lüttichau, superintendent to the King of Saxony, has offered me the post of director when it shall be vacant.

Liszt strongly advises me to accept, but I cannot say. Time enough to decide when the place is at my disposal.

At present in Dresden they talk of reviving _Benvenuto Cellini_, which Liszt has already given in Weimar, and of course I should have to go and superintend the first performances.

Blessed Germany, nursing mother of Art; generous England; Russia, my saviour; good friends in France, and you--noble hearts of all nations whom I have known--I thank and bless you all; your memory will be my comfort to my latest hour.

As for you, idiots and blind! You, my Guildenstern, Rosencrantz, Iago and Osric! You, crawling worms of all kinds! Farewell, my friends--I scorn you; may you be forgotten ere I die!

_Note._--This was originally the ending of Berlioz’ _Mémoires_, but
his correspondence was voluminous after this date and he also added
some chapters to his Life.

_To_ AUGUSTE MOREL.

“_June 1855._--You ask me to describe my _Te Deum_, which is rather
embarrassing. I can only say that its effect both on the performers
and myself was stupendous. Its immeasurable grandeur and breadth
struck everyone, and you can understand that the _Tibi omnes_ and
_Judex_ would have even more effect in a less sonorous hall than
the church of St Eustache.

“I start for England on Friday. Wagner, who is directing the old
London Philharmonic (a post I was obliged to refuse, being engaged
by the other society) is buried beneath the vituperations of the
whole British press. He remains calm, for he says that _in fifty
years he will be master of the musical world_.”

“_July._--“My trip to London, where, each time, I become more
comfortably established, was a brilliant success.

“I mean to go back next winter after a prospective short tour
through Austria and Bohemia--at least if we are not at war with
Austria.”

“I do nothing but correct proofs from morning to night, and see,
hear, know nothing.”

“Meyerbeer ought to be pleased with the reception of the _Etoile du
Nord_ at Covent Garden. They threw him bouquets, as though he were
a prima-donna.”

_To_ RICHARD WAGNER.

“_September 1855._--Your letter has given me real pleasure. You
do well to deplore my ignorance of German, and I have often told
myself that, as you say, this ignorance makes it impossible for me
to appreciate your writings. Expression melts away in translation,
no matter how daintily it is handled.”

“In _true music_ there are accents that belong to special words,
separated they are spoilt.”

“But what can I do? I find it so devilishly hard to learn
languages; a few words of English and Italian are all I can manage.”

“So you are busy melting glaciers with your Nibelungen! It must
be glorious to write in the presence of great Mother Nature--a
joy withheld from me, for, instead of stimulating, the sea, the
mountain peaks, the glories of this beautiful earth absorb me so
completely that I have no room, no outlet for expression. I only
feel. I can but describe the moon from her reflection at the bottom
of a well.”

“I am sorry I have no scores to send you, but you shall have the
_Te Deum_, _Childhood of Christ_ and _Lélio_ as soon as they come
out. I already have your _Lohengrin_ and should be delighted if you
would let me have _Tannhäuser_.

“To meet as you suggest would be indeed a pleasure, but I dare not
think of it. Since Paris offers me but Dead Sea fruit I must of
necessity earn my bread by travelling for bread--not pleasure.

“No matter. If we could but live another hundred years or so we
might perhaps understand the true inwardness of men and things. Old
Demiurge must laugh in his beard at the continual triumph of his
well-worn, oft-repeated farce.

“But I will not speak ill of him, since he is a friend of yours
and you have become his champion. I am an impious wretch, full of
respect for the _Pies_. Forgive the atrocious pun!

“_P.S._--Winged flights of many tinted thoughts crowd in upon me
and I long to send them, were there but time.

“Write me down an ass until further orders.”

XXXIV

1863--GATHERING TWILIGHT

Nearly ten years since I finished my memoir and during that time my life has been as full of incident as ever.

But since, for nothing on earth would I go through the labour of writing again, I must just indicate the chief points.

My work is over; Othello’s occupation’s gone. I no longer compose, conduct, write either prose or verse. I have resigned my post of musical critic and wish to do nothing more. I only read, think, fight my deadly weariness of soul and suffer from the incurable neuralgia that tortures me night and day.

To my great surprise I have been elected a member of the Academy and my relations with my colleagues are, throughout, pleasant and friendly.

In 1855 Prince Napoleon desired me to arrange a great concert in the Exhibition building for the day upon which the Emperor was to distribute the prizes.

I accepted on condition that I had no pecuniary responsibility, and M. Ber, a generous and brave impresario, came forward and treated me most liberally.

These concerts (for there were several besides the official one) brought me in eight thousand francs.

In a raised gallery behind the throne I had placed twelve hundred musicians, who were barely heard. Not that that mattered much on the day of the ceremony, for I was stopped at the most interesting point of the very first piece (the _Imperial Cantata_ which I had written for the occasion) because the Prince had to make his speech and the music was lasting too long!!

However the next day the paying public was admitted and we took seventy-five thousand francs. This time I brought the orchestra down into the body of the hall, with fine effect.

I sent to Brussels for an electrician I knew, who made me a five-wired metronome so that by the single movement of my left hand, I could mark time for the five deputy conductors placed at different points of the enormous space.

The _ensemble_ was marvellous.

Since then most of the theatres have adopted electric metronomes for the guidance of chorus-masters behind the scenes. The Opera alone refused; but, when I undertook the supervision of _Alcestis_, I introduced it.

In these Palais de l’Industrie concerts the finest effects were obtained from broad, grand, simple and somewhat slow movements, such as the chorus from _Armida_, the _Tibi omnes_ of my _Te Deum_ and the _Apotheosis_ of my _Funeral Symphony_.

_Letters to_ FERRAND and LOUIS BERLIOZ from
1858 to 1863.

_To_ HUMBERT FERRAND.

“_November 1858._--I have nothing to tell you, I simply want to
write. I am ill, miserable (how many _I’s_ to each line!) Always
_I_ and _me_! One’s friends are for _oneself_, it ought to be
oneself for one’s friends.

“My dejection melts away as I write; for pity’s sake let us write
oftener! These years of silence are insupportable.

“Think how horribly quickly we are dying and how much good your
letters do me!

“Last night I dreamt of music, this morning I recalled it all and
fell into one of those supernal ecstasies.... All the tears of my
soul poured forth as I listened to those divinely sonorous smiles
that radiate from the angels alone. Believe me, dear friend, the
being who could write such miracles of transcendent melody would be
more than mortal.

“So sings great Michael as, erect upon the threshold of the
empyrean, he dreamily gazes down upon the worlds beneath.

“Why, oh, why! have I not such an orchestra that I, too, could sing
this archangelic song!

“Back to this lower earth! I am interrupted. Vulgar, commonplace,
stupid life! Oh! that I had a hundred cannon to fire all at once!

“Good-bye. I feel better. Forgive me!”

* * * * *

“_6th July 1861._--_The Trojans_ has been accepted for the Opera,
but I cannot tell when they will produce it as Gounod and Gervaert
have to come first. But I am determined to worry myself no more; I
will not court Fortune, I will lie in bed and await her.

“All the same, I could not resist a little uncourtly frankness when
the Empress asked me when she should hear _The Trojans_.

“‘I do not know, madame, I begin to
think one must live a hundred and fifty years in order to get a
hearing at the Opera.’

“The annoying part is that, thanks to these delays, my work is
getting a sort of advance reputation that may injure it in the end.

“I am getting on with a one-act opera for Baden, written round
Shakespeare’s _Much Ado About Nothing_. It is called _Beatrice and
Benedict_; I promise there shall not be much _Ado_ in the shape of
noise in it. Benazet, the king of Baden, wants it next year.

“An American director has offered me an engagement in the
_Dis_united States; but his proposals are unavailing in view of my
unconquerable antipathy to his great nation, and my love of money
is not sufficiently great to prick me on. I do not know whether
your love for American _utilitarian_ manners and customs is any
more intense than my own.

“In any case, it would be a great mistake to go far from Paris now;
at any moment they might want _The Trojans_.”

* * * * *

“_30th June 1862._--In my bereavement I can write but little.

“My wife is dead--struck down in a moment by heart disease. The
frightful loneliness, after the wrench of this sudden parting, is
indescribable. Forgive me for not saying more.”

_To_ LOUIS BERLIOZ.

“_January 1858._--Perhaps you have heard that a band of ruffians
surrounded the Emperor’s carriage as he went to the opera. They
threw a bomb that killed and wounded both men and horses, but,
by great good luck, did not touch the Emperor; and the charming
Empress did not lose her head for a moment. The courage and
presence of mind of both were perfect.

“I have just had a long letter from M. von Bulow, Liszt’s
son-in-law, who married Mlle. Cosima. He tells me that he performed
my _Cellini_ overture with the greatest success at a Berlin
concert. He is one of the most fervent disciples of that crazy
school of the ‘Music of the Future,’ as they call it in Germany.”

“They stick to it, and want me to be their leader and
standard-bearer, but I write nothing, say nothing, but just let
them go their way. Good sense will teach reasonable people the
truth.”

* * * * *

“_May 1858._--The foreign mail leaves to-morrow, and I must have a
chat with you, dear Louis. I long for news. Are you well? happy?

“Here we are rather miserable. I am somewhat better, but my wife is
nearly always in bed and in pain.”

* * * * *

“_November 1860._--Dear Boy,--Here is a hundred-franc note. Be sure
to acknowledge it. I am thankful you are better. I, too, think my
disease is wearing itself out. I am certainly better since I gave
up remedies. Ideas for my little opera throng in so fast that I
cannot find time to write; sometimes I begin a new one before I
finish the old.”

“You ask how I manage to crowd Shakespeare’s five acts into
one. I have taken only one subject from the play--the part in
which Beatrice and Benedict, who detest each other, are mutually
persuaded of each other’s love, whereby they are inspired with
true passion. The idea is really comic.”

* * * * *

“_14th February 1861._--It worries me to hear of your state of mind.

“I cannot imagine what dreams have made your present life so
impossible. All I can say is that I was, at your age, far from
being as well off as you are.

“Nay, more; I never dared to hope that, so soon after getting your
captain’s certificate, you would find a berth.

“It is natural that you should wish to get on, but sometimes the
chances of one year bring more change into a man’s life than ten
years of strenuous endeavour.

“How can I teach you patience? Your mania for marriage would make
me laugh were I not saddened by seeing you striving after the
heaviest of all fetters and after the sordid vexations of domestic
life--the most hopeless and exasperating of all lives. You are
twenty-six, and have eighteen hundred francs, with a prospect of
rapid promotion. When I married your mother I was thirty, and
had but three hundred francs in the world--lent me by my friend
Gounet--and the balance of my Prix de Rome scholarship.

“Then there were your mother’s debts--nearly fourteen thousand
francs--which I paid off gradually, and the necessity of sending
money to her mother in England, besides which I had quarrelled with
my family, who cast me off, and was trying hard to make my first
small mark in the musical world.

“Compare my hardships with your present discontent! Even now, do
you think it is very lively for me to be bound to this infernal
galley-oar of journalism?

“I am so ill I can hardly hold my pen, yet I am forced to write for
my miserable hundred francs, the while my brain teems with work
and plans and designs that fall dead--thanks to my slavery.

“You are well and strong, while I writhe in ceaseless, incurable
pain. Marie[25] thanks you for your kind messages. She, too, is
ill. Dear boy! you have at least a father, friend, devoted brother,
who loves you more than you seem to think, but who wishes that your
character were firmer, your mind more decided.

* * * * *

“_21st February 1861._--Wagner is turning our singers into goats.
It seems impossible to disentangle this _Tannhäuser_. I hear that
the last general rehearsal was awful, and only finished at one in
the morning. I suppose they will get through somehow.

“Liszt is coming to prop up the charivari.

“I have refused to write the critique, and have asked d’Ortigue to
do it. It is best for every reason, and besides, it will disappoint
them! Never did I have so many windmills to run a-tilt of as I have
this year. I am deluged with fools of every species, and am choking
with anger.

* * * * *

“_5th March 1861._--The _Tannhäuser_ scandal grows apace. Everyone
is raging. Even the Minister left the rehearsal in a towering
passion. The Emperor is far from pleased; yet there are still a few
honest enthusiasts left--even among French people.

“Wagner is decidedly mad. He will die of apoplexy, just as Jullien
did last year.

“Liszt never came after all. I think he expected a fiasco. They
have spent a hundred and sixty thousand francs over mounting the
opera. Well, we shall see what Friday brings forth.”

* * * * *

“_21st March 1861._--The second performance of _Tannhäuser_ was
worse than the first. No more laughter, the audience was too
furious, and, regardless of the presence of the Emperor and
Empress, hissed unmercifully. Coming out, Wagner was vituperated
as a scoundrel, an idiot, an impertinent wretch. If this goes on,
one day the performance will stop abruptly in the middle, and there
will be an end of the whole thing.

“The press is unanimous in damning it.”

* * * * *

“_18th April 1861._--Write, dear Louis, if you can, without the
cruel knife-thrusts you gave me in your last letter.

“I am worse than usual to-day, and have not strength to begin
my article. I had an ovation at the Conservatoire after the
performance of _Faust_. I dined with the Emperor a week ago, and
exchanged a few words with him. I was magnificently bored.”

* * * * *

“_2nd June 1861._--You are worried, and I can do nothing for
you. Alexis is trying to find you a position in Paris, but is
unsuccessful. I am as inefficient as he is. You alone can command
your fate. They wish me to bring out _Alcestis_ at the Opera as I
did _Orpheus_ at the Théâtre Lyrique, and offer me full author’s
rights, but I have refused for various reasons.

“They believe that, for money, artists will stultify their
consciences; I mean to prove that their belief is false.[26]

“My obstinacy has offended many. Instead of amusing themselves by
spoiling Gluck’s _chef d’œuvre_, I wish they would spend their
money over mounting _The Trojans_. But of course they won’t, since
it is the obvious thing to do! Liszt has conquered the Emperor; he
played at Court last week, and has been given the Legion of Honour.

“Ah, if one only plays the piano!”

* * * * *

“_28th October 1861._--Dear Louis,--Did I not know what a terrible
effect disappointment has on even the best characters, I should
really feel inclined to let you have some home truths. You have
wounded me mortally with a deliberate calmness that shows you were
master of your language. But I can forgive, for you are not a bad
son after all.

“You go too far. Is it my fault that I am not rich, that I could
not let you live idly in Paris with a wife and children? Is there
a shadow of justice in reproaching me as you do? For nearly three
months you keep silence, then comes this ironical letter! My poor
dear boy, it is not right.

“Don’t worry about your debt to the tailor; send me the bill and I
will pay him.

“You ask me to beg a post for you. From whom? You know there never
was a more awkward man than I at asking favours.

“Good-bye, dear son, dear friend, dear unlucky boy--unlucky by your
own fault, not by mine.”

* * * * *

“_17th June 1862._--You have received my letter and telegram,[27]
but I write to ask whether you can come to me in Baden on the
6th or 7th August, as I know you would enjoy hearing the last
rehearsals and first performance of my opera. In my leisure moments
you would be my companion, you would see my friends, we should be
together.

“Could you leave your ship so near its date for sailing?

“I am not sure how much money I can send you. The expenses of that
sad ceremony--the transference from St Germain--will be great.

“I am rather afraid, too, of trusting you in a gambling town, but
if you will give me your word of honour not to stake a single
florin I will trust you.

“My mother-in-law came back yesterday just after I had left home
to find only her daughter’s body. She is nearly frantic and is
constantly watched by a friend who came to our help. Think of the
anguish! Write soon, my dear, dear boy.”

* * * * *

“BADEN, _10th August 1862_.--_Beatrice_ was applauded from
end to end, and I was recalled more times than I could count. My
friends were delighted, but I was quite unmoved, for it was one of
my days of excruciating pain and nothing seemed to matter.

“To-day I am better and can enjoy their congratulations.

“You will be pleased too, but why have you left me so long without
a letter? Why do they keep transferring you from boat to boat? Do
not write here again as I soon go back to Paris. Now I am called
and must go and thank my radiant singers.”

_To_ H. FERRAND.

“PARIS, _21st August 1862_.--I am just home from Baden,
where _Beatrice_ obtained a real triumph.

“I always fly to you, be my news good or evil, I am so sure of your
loving interest. Would you had been there! it would have recalled
the night of the _Childhood of Christ_.

“Foes and conspirators stayed in Paris, artists and authors
journeyed to Baden to be present; Madame Charton-Demeur was
perfect, both as singer and actress.

“But can you believe that my neuralgia was too bad that day for me
to take interest in anything? I took my place at the conductor’s
desk, before that cosmopolitan audience, to direct an opera of
which I had written both words and music, absolutely, deadly
impassible. Whereby I conducted better than usual. I was much more
nervous at the second performance.

“Benazet, who always does things royally, spent outrageously in
every department. He has splendidly inaugurated the new theatre
and has created a furore. They want to give _Beatrice_ at the
Opera Comique, but there is no one to do the heroine since Madame
Charton-Demeur is going to America.

“You would laugh at the critiques. People are finding out that I
have melody; that I can be gay--in fact, really comic; that I am
not _noisy_, which is rather obvious, since the heavy instruments
are conspicuous by their absence.

“How much patience I should need were I not so completely
indifferent. Dear friend, I suffer a perfect martyrdom daily from
four in the morning till four in the afternoon. What is to become
of me? I do not tell you this to make you patient under your own
afflictions--my woes are no compensation to you.

“I simply cry unto you as one does to those who love and are loved.
Adieu! Adieu!”

* * * * *