Part 10

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.