Part 11

“Have I told you of my parting with Henriette--of our scenes, despair, reproaches, which ended in my taking poison? Her protestations of love and sorrow brought back my desire to live; I took an emetic, was ill three days and am still alive! In her self-abasement she offered to do anything I chose, but now she begins to hesitate again. I will wait no more and have written that, unless she goes with me to the Town Hall on Saturday to be married, I leave for Berlin at once. She shall see that I, who for so long have languished at her feet, can rise, can leave her, can live for those who love and understand me.

“To help me to bear this horrible parting a strange chance has thrown in my way a charming girl of eighteen, who has fled from a brute who bought her--a mere child--and has kept her shut up like a slave for four years. Rather than go back to him, she says she will drown herself and my idea is to take her to Berlin, and by Spontini’s influence, place her in some chorus. I will try and make her love me, and if I succeed, I will fan into life the smouldering embers in my own heart and persuade myself that I love her. My passport is ready; I must make an end of things here. Henriette will be miserable but I have nothing to reproach myself with.

“I would give my life this minute for a month of _perfect love_ with her.

“She must abide the consequences of her unstable character; she will weep and despair at first, then will dry her tears and end by believing me in the wrong.”

* * * * *

“_11th October 1833._--I am married! All opposition has been in vain. Henriette has told me of the hundred and one lies they spread abroad. I was epileptic, I was mad--nothing was too bad. But we have listened to our own hearts and all is well.

“This winter we are going to Berlin, but before leaving I must give a horrid concert.

“How _awfully_ I love my poor Ophelia! When once we can get rid of her troublesome sister, life will be hard but quite happy.

“We are at Vincennes, where my wife can spend her days in the Park, but I go to Paris every day. Our marriage has made the devil’s own row there.

“My little fugitive is provided for. Jules Janin has arranged to send her away.

“Write soon. I love to answer, in order to tell you of the heaven I live in--it needs but you! Surely love and friendship like yours and mine is one of the supreme joys of this world!”

XXII

NEWSPAPER BONDAGE

At the time of our marriage our sole income was my scholarship, which still had a year and a half to run; but the Minister of the Interior absolved me from the regulation German tour. I had a fair number of friends and adherents in Paris and firm faith in the future.

To pay my wife’s debts, I had to start _benefit-mongering_. My friends rallied round me--amongst them Alexandre Dumas, who was all his life my most devoted helper--and after untold annoyances we arranged a theatrical performance, followed by a concert at the Théâtre Italien.

The programme was Dumas’ _Antony_, played by Firmin and Madame Dorval, followed by the fourth act of _Hamlet_, by my wife and some English amateurs; then a concert consisting of my _Symphonie Fantastique_, _Francs-Juges_, _Sardanapalus_, a chorus of Weber and his _Concert-Stück_, played by Liszt.

If the concert had ever come off entirely it would have lasted till one in the morning. But it did not, and for the sake of young musicians I must tell what happened.

Not being versed in the manners and customs of theatrical musicians, I arranged with the manager to take his theatre and orchestra, adding to the latter some players from the Opera, an impossibly dangerous combination, since the theatre _employés_ were bound by contract to take part gratuitously in concerts in their own house, and, therefore, naturally look upon them as a burden. By engaging paid artists, I simply added to their grievance, and they determined to be revenged.

Then, my wife and I being equally ignorant of the petty intrigues of the theatrical world we took no precautions to insure her success. We never even sent a ticket to the _claque_, and Madame Dorval, believing Henriette’s triumph secured, of course took measures to arrange for her own. Besides, she played splendidly, so it was no wonder she was applauded and recalled.

The fourth act of _Hamlet_, separated from its context, was incomprehensible to French people and fell absolutely flat. They even noticed (although her talent and grace were as great as ever) how difficult my poor wife found it to raise herself from her kneeling position by her father’s bier, by resting one hand on the stage. Gone was her magnetic power to thrill her audience, and, at the fall of the curtain, those who had idolised her did not even recall her once! It was heart-breaking. My poor Ophelia, the twilight had indeed crept on!

As to the concert, the _Francs-Juges_ was poorly played but well received; the _Concert-Stück_, played by Liszt with the passionate impetuosity he always put into it, created a furore, and I, carried away by enthusiasm, was idiotic enough to embrace him on the stage, a piece of stupidity fortunately condoned by the audience.

From then things went badly, and by the time we arrived at the symphony not only were my pulses beating like sledge-hammers, but it was very late indeed. I knew nothing of the rule of the Théâtre Italien, that its musicians need not play after midnight, and when, after Weber’s _Chorus_, I turned to review my orchestra before raising my baton, I found that it consisted of five violins, two violas, four ’cellos, and a trombone, all the others having slipped quietly away.

In my consternation I could not think what to do. The audience did not seem inclined to leave and loudly called for the symphony, one voice in the gallery shouting, “Give us the _Marche au Supplice_!”

“How can I,” cried I, “perform such a thing with five violins? Is it my fault that the orchestra has disappeared?”

I was crimson with rage and shame.

With disappointed murmurs the people melted away. Of course my enemies announced that my music “drove musicians out of the place.”

That miserable evening brought in seven thousand francs, which went into the gulf of my wife’s debts without, alas! filling it up. That was only done after years of struggle and privation.

I longed to give Henriette a splendid revenge, but there were no English actors in Paris to help her with a complete play, and we both saw that mutilated Shakespeare was worse than useless. I was, therefore, obliged to content myself with taking vengeance for the malicious reports about my music, and, with Henriette’s full approval, I arranged for a concert of my own works at the Conservatoire.

It was a terrible risk for a penniless man, but here, as ever, my wife shewed herself the courageous opponent of half-measures and steadfastly determined to face the chance of positive penury.

The concert, for which I engaged the very best artists, amongst whom were many of my friends, was a triumphant success. I was vindicated.

My musicians (none of whom came from the Italien) beamed with joy, and, to crown all, when the audience had dispersed I found waiting for me a man with long black hair, piercing eyes, and wasted form--genius-haunted, a colossus among giants--whom I had never seen before, yet who stirred within me a strange emotion.

Catching my hand, he poured forth a flood of burning praise and appreciation that fired my heart and head.

It was Paganini.

This was on the 22nd December 1833.

Thus began my friendship with that great artist to whom I owe so much and whose generosity towards me has given rise to such absurd and wicked reports. Some weeks later he said:

“I have a beautiful Strad. viola which I long to play in public. Will you write me a solo for it? I could not trust anyone but you.”

“To do that one ought to play the viola,” I objected. “You alone could do it satisfactorily.”

But he insisted:

“I am too ill to compose; it would be useless to try. You will do it properly.”

So to please him I tried to write a viola solo with orchestral accompaniment, feeling sure that his power would enable him to dominate the orchestra. It seemed to me an entirely new idea, and I burned to carry it through. However, he called soon after and asked to see a sketch of his part.

“This won’t do,” he said, looking at the pauses, “there is too much silence. I must be playing all the time.”

“Did I not tell you so?” I answered. “What you want is a viola concerto, and you are the only one who can write it.”

He seemed disappointed and dropped the subject; a few days later, suffering from the throat trouble of which he afterwards died, he left for Nice and did not come back for three years.

Still ruminating over my idea, I wove round the viola solo a series of scenes, drawn from my memories of wanderings in the Abruzzi, which I called _Childe Harold_, as there seemed to me about the whole symphony a poetic melancholy worthy of Byron’s hero. It was first performed at my concert, 23rd November 1834, but Girard, the conductor, made a terrible hash of the _Pilgrim’s March_. However, being doubtful of my own powers, I still allowed him to direct my concerts until, after the fourth performance of _Harold_, seeing that he would not take it at the proper _tempo_, I assumed command myself, and never but once after that broke my rule of conducting my own compositions.

We shall see how much cause I had to regret that one exception.

_To_ HUMBERT FERRAND.

“MONTMARTRE, _30th August 1834_.--You are not forgotten--not the least little bit, but you cannot know what a slave I am to hard necessity. Had it not been for those confounded newspaper articles I should have written to you a dozen times.

“I will not write the usual empty phrases on your loss yet, if anything could soften the blow, it would be that your father’s death was as peaceful as one could wish. You speak of my father. He wrote kindly and quickly in answer to my letter announcing the birth of my boy. Henriette thanks you for your messages; she, too, understands the depth of our friendship. I could write all night but, as I have to tug at my galley-oar all day, I must go to sleep.”

* * * * *

“_30th November 1834._--I quite expected a letter from you to-day, and although I am dropping with fatigue, I must snatch half an hour to answer it. The _Symphonie Fantastique_ is out, and, as our poor Liszt has dropped a terrible lot of money over it, we arranged with Schlesinger that not one copy was to be given away. They are twenty francs. Shall I buy one for you?

“Would to heaven I could send it you without all this preface, but you know we are still very straitened. My wife and I are as happy as it is possible to be, in spite of our worldly troubles, and little Louis is the dearest and sweetest of children.”

* * * * *

“_10th January 1835._--If I had had time I should already have begun another work I am thinking of, but I am obliged to scribble these wretched, ill-paid articles. Ah! if only art counted for something with the Government perhaps I should not be reduced to this. Never mind, I must find time somehow.”

* * * * *

“_April 1835._--I wrote, about a month ago, an introduction to you for a young violinist named Allard, who is on his way to Geneva.

“So you have been in Milan! Not a town I like, but it is the threshold of Italy. I cannot tell you how much, when the weather is fine, I long for my ancient Campagna and the wild hills that I loved.

“You ask for news of us.

“Louis can nearly walk alone and Henriette is more devoted to him than ever. I work like a nigger for the four papers whence I get my daily bread. They are the _Rénovateur_, which pays badly; the _Monde Dramatique_ and _Gazette Musicale_ which pay only fairly; the _Débats_, which pays well.

“Added to this is the nightmare of my musical life; I cannot find time to compose.

“I have begun a gigantic piece of work for seven hundred musicians, to the memory of the great men of France.

“It would soon be done if I had but one quiet month, but I dare not give up a single day to it, lest we should want for absolute necessaries.

“Which concert do you refer to? I have given seven this season and shall begin again in November.

“At present we sit dumb under the triumph of Musard,[12] who, puffed up by the success of his dancing-den concerts, looks upon himself as a superior Mozart. Mozart never composed anything like the ‘Pistol-shot Quadrille,’ consequently Mozart died of want.

“Musard is earning twenty thousand francs a year, and Ballanche, the immortal author of _Orpheus_ and _Antigone_ was nearly thrown into prison, because he owed two hundred francs.

“Think of it, Ferrand; does not madness lie that way? If I were a bachelor, so that my rash doings would recoil on myself alone, I know what I would do.

“Never mind that now, though. Love me always and, to please me, read de Vigny’s _Chatterton_.”

“_December 1835._--Do not think me a sinner for leaving you so long in silence. You can have no idea of my work--but I need not emphasise that, for you know how much pleasure I have in writing to you and that I should not lightly forego it.

“I have seen Coste, who is publishing serially _Great Men of Italy_, and he is going to approach you about contributing some articles. Among those now out is a life of Benvenuto Cellini. Read it, if you are not already familiar with the autobiography of that bandit of genius.

“_Harold_ is more successful even than last year, and I think it quite outdoes the _Fantastique_.

“They have accepted my _Cellini_ for the Opera; Alfred de Vigny[13] and Auguste Barbier have written me a poem full of dainty vivacity and colour. I have not begun to work at the music yet, because I am in the same predicament as my hero, Cellini--short of money. Good reports from Germany, thanks to Liszt’s piano arrangement of my Symphony.

* * * * *

“_April 1826._--I still work frightfully hard at journalism. You know I write concert critiques for the _Débats_, which are signed ‘H.’

“They seem to be making a stir. Parisian artists call them epoch-making.

“In spite of M. Bertin (the editor’s) wish, I refused to review either _I Puritani_ or that wretched _Juive_. I should have had to find too much fault, and people would have put it down to jealousy.

“Then there is the _Rénovateur_, wherein I can hardly control my wrath over all these ‘pretty little trifles’; and _Picturesque Italy_ has dragged an article out of me.

“Next, the _Gazette Musicale_ plagues me for a _résumé_ of the week’s inanities every Sunday.

“Added to that I have tried every concert room in Paris, with the idea of giving a concert, and find none suitable except the Conservatoire, which is not available until after the last of the regular concerts on the 3rd May.

“We often talk of you to Barbier; he is a kindred soul whom you would love. No one understands better than he the grandeur and nobility of an artist’s calling.

“Germany still talks of me; Vienna asks for a copy of the score of the _Fantastique_, but I tell them I cannot possibly let them have it, as I propose to give it on tour myself.

“All the poets in Paris, from Scribe to Victor Hugo, offer me subjects, but those idiotic directors stand in the way. Some day I will set my foot upon their necks.

“Now I must be off to the office of the _Débats_ with my article on Beethoven’s _C Minor_.

“Meyerbeer is coming soon to superintend his _Huguenots_, which I am most anxious to hear. He is the only recognised musician who has shown a keen interest in me.

“Onslow has been paying me his usual bombastic compliments on the _Pilgrim’s March_. I am glad to think there was not a word of truth in them, I prefer open hatred to honeyed venom.”

XXIII

THE REQUIEM

In 1836 M. de Gasparin, Minister of the Interior, feeling that religious music should be better supported, allocated, yearly, a sum of 3000 francs to be given to a French composer, chosen by the Minister, for either a mass or an oratorio; his idea being also to have it executed at the expense of the Government.

“I shall begin with Berlioz,” he said, “I am sure he could write a good Requiem.”

A friend of M. de Gasparin’s son told me this. My surprise was only equalled by my delight, but, to make sure, I asked an audience of M. de Gasparin.

“It is quite true,” he said, “I am going out of office, and this is my last bequest. You have, of course, received the official notification.”

“No, monsieur; it was by a mere chance that I heard of your kind intentions towards me.”

“What! you ought to have had it a week ago. It must be an official oversight; I will look into it.”

But nothing happened, and I finally spoke to the Minister’s son, who told me that there was an intrigue on foot to put off my commission until his father’s retirement, after which the Director of Fine Arts--who had no love for me, but whom I need not name since he is dead--hoped that it would be shelved.

This Monsieur X. was a Rossinist. One day I heard him giving his opinion of composers, ancient and modern, and rejecting them all, except Beethoven, whom he forgot. Suddenly he bethought him and said:

“Let’s see. I believe there is another--a German--what is his name? They play his symphonies at the Conservatoire. You may know him, Monsieur Berlioz?”

“Beethoven.”

“Ah yes, Beethoven. I believe he has a certain amount of talent.”

I heard that myself. _Beethoven not devoid of talent!_

M. de Gasparin had no intention of being ignored; therefore, finding that nothing had been done, he sent for M. X. and ordered him sternly to make out my appointment at once.

Naturally this snub did not increase M. X.’s friendly feeling towards me but, armed with my decree, I set to work with the greatest ardour.

I had so long ached to try my hand at a Requiem that I flung myself into it body and soul. My head seemed bursting with the ferment of ideas, and I actually had to invent a sort of musical short-hand to get on fast enough.

All composers know the bitter despair of losing beautiful ideas through want of time to jot them down.

In spite of the rapidity with which I wrote, I afterwards made but few corrections.

Is it not strange that, during that volcanic time, I should twice over have dreamed that I was sitting in the Meylan garden, under a beautiful weeping acacia, alone. Estelle was not there, and I kept asking:

“Where is she? Where is she?”

Who can explain it? Only those who recognise the affinity of the mysteries of the human heart with those of the magnet.

Here, briefly, is a list of the miseries I endured over that Requiem.

It was arranged that it should be performed at the memorial service held every July for the victims of the Revolution of 1830. I, consequently, had the parts copied, and was beginning rehearsals, when I was told to stop, as the service was to be held without music.

Of course the new Minister owed a certain amount to my copyists and chorus (without mentioning myself), yet will it be believed that for five months I had to besiege that department for those few hundred francs? At last, losing all patience, I had a pretty lively quarrel with M. X., and as I left his room the guns of the Invalides proclaimed the fall of Constantine.

Two hours later he sent for me in hot haste. A funeral service was to be held for General Damrémont and the soldiers who had fallen in the siege.

Now mark! This being a military affair, General Bernard had charge of it, and in this way M. X. hoped to get rid of me and also of the necessity of paying his just debts.

Here the drama becomes complicated.

Cherubini, hearing that my Requiem was to be performed, worked himself into a fever, for he considered that _his_ Requiem should have a monopoly of such ceremonies. His rights, his dignity, his genius, all set aside in favour of a hot-headed young heretic!! His friends, headed by Halévy, started a cabal to oust me.

Being one morning in the _Débats_ office, I saw Halévy come in. Now M. Bertin, the editor, has always been one of my best and kindest friends, and the frigid reception he and his son Armand gave the visitor somewhat disconcerted him--my presence still more so--and he found a change of tactics advisable.

He followed M. Bertin into the next room, and I, through the open door, heard him say that “Cherubini took it so to heart that he was ill in bed, and he (Halévy) had come to beg M. Bertin to use his influence in getting him the consolation of the Legion of Honour.”

M. Berlin’s cold voice broke in:

“Certainly, my dear Halévy, we will do our best to get Cherubini such a well-merited distinction. But as far as the Requiem is concerned, if Berlioz gives way one jot, _I will never speak to him again_.”

So much for that failure. Next came a blacker plot.

General Bernard agreed that I should have a free hand, and rehearsals had already begun when M. X. sent for me again. This time it was:

“Habeneck has always conducted our great official performances, and I know he would be terribly hurt at being left out of this. Are you on good terms with him?”

“Why, no. We have quarrelled, goodness only knows why--I don’t! He has not spoken to me for three years. I never troubled to find out the reason, but he began by refusing to conduct one of my concerts. Still, if he wishes to conduct this one, he may, but I reserve the right of conducting one rehearsal.”

On the great day princes, ministers, peers, deputies, the press--home and foreign--and a mighty crowd gathered in the Invalides. It was most important that I should have a real success, failure would have crushed me irretrievably.

My performers were rather curiously arranged. To get the right effect in the _Tuba mirum_, the four brass bands were placed one at each corner of the enormous body of instrumentalists and choristers. As they join in, the _tempo_ doubles, and it is, of course, of the utmost importance that the time should be absolutely clearly indicated. Otherwise, my Titanic cataclysm--prepared with so much thought and care by means of original and hitherto unknown combinations of instruments to represent the Last Judgment--becomes merely a hideous pandemonium.

Suspicious as usual, I took care to be close to Habeneck--in fact, back to back with him--keeping an eye on the group of kettledrums (which he could not see) as the critical moment drew near.

There are about a thousand bars in my Requiem; will it be believed that at this--the most important of all--Habeneck _calmly laid down his baton and, with the utmost deliberation, took a pinch of snuff_.

But my eye was upon him; turning on my heel, in a flash I stretched out my arm and marked the four mighty beats. The executants followed me, all went right, and my long-dreamed-of effect was a magnificent triumph.

“Dear me,” bleated Habeneck, “I was quite in a perspiration; without you we should have been done for.”

“Yes, we should,” I answered, eyeing him steadily.

Could it be that this man, in conjunction with M. X. and Cherubini, planned this dastardly stroke?

I do not like to think so, yet I have not the slightest doubt. God forgive me if I wrong them.

The Requiem had succeeded, but then began the usual sordid trouble about payment.