Part 12

General Bernard, a thoroughly honourable man, had promised me ten thousand francs for the performance as soon as I brought from the Minister of the Interior a promise to pay the sum ordered by the late Minister--M. de Gasparin--and also that due to the copyists and choristers.

But do you think I could get this letter? It was written out ready for his signature, and from ten to four I waited in his ante-room. At last he emerged and, being button-holed by his secretary, scrawled his name to the precious document, and without a moment’s loss of time I hurried off to General Bernard, who promptly handed me the ten thousand francs, which I spent entirely in paying the performers.

Of course I thought the Minister’s three thousand would soon follow.

_Sancta simplicitas!_ Will it be credited that only by making most unpleasant, almost scandalous, scenes could I, at the end of _eight months_, get that money?

Later on, when my good friend, M. de Gasparin, again came into office, he tried to make up for my mortification by giving me the Legion of Honour. But by that time I was past caring for such a commonplace distinction.

Duponchel, manager of the Opera and Bordogni, the singing-master, got it at the same time.

When the Requiem was printed, I dedicated it to M. de Gasparin, all the more willingly that he was not then in power.

What added greatly to the humour of the situation was that the opposition newspapers dubbed me a “Government parasite,” and said I had been paid thirty thousand francs. They only added a nought.

Thus is history written.

Ere long Cherubini played me another charming trick.

A professorship of Harmony was vacant at the Conservatoire, for which I applied. Cherubini sent for me, and, in his most honeyed voice, said:

“Is it zat you present yourself for ze ’armonee?”

“Yes, monsieur.”

“Zen you vill get it. You ’ave a reputation, influence----”

“Since I asked for it because I want it, I am glad, monsieur.”

“Yes, but zat is vhere I am bothair; I vill zat anozzer get it.”

“Then, monsieur, I withdraw.”

“No, no! I vill not ’ave zat, because you see zey will say I am ze cause zat you vizdraw.”

“Then I won’t withdraw.”

“But--but--zen you vill get ze place--and I did not vish it for you.”

“Then what am I to do?”

“You know zat you must be pianist, for teach ze ’armonee at Conservatoire, my tear fallow.”

“Ah, I never thought of that. That is a capital excuse. You want me to say that, not being a pianist, I withdraw?”

“Just so! just so, my tear fallow! But _I_ am not ze excuse zat you vizdraw----”

“Certainly not, monsieur; it was stupid of me to forget that only pianists could teach Harmony.”

“Yes, my tear boy; embrace me, for I lof you much.”

A week after he gave the place to Bienaimé, who played the piano as well as I do!

Now I call that a thoroughly well-planned trick, and I was among the first to laugh at it.

Soon after, I seriously hurt the feelings of the friend who “lofed me much.”

It was at the first performance of his _Ali Baba_, about the emptiest, feeblest thing he ever wrote. Near the end of the first act, tired of hearing nothing striking, I called out:

“Twenty francs for an idea!”

In the middle of the second I raised my bid.

“Forty francs for an idea!”

The finale commenced.

“Eighty francs for an idea!”

The finale ended and I took myself off, remarking:

“By Jove! I give it up. I’m not rich enough!”

Of course indignant friends of Cherubini told him of my insolence and, considering how he “lofed” me, he must have thought me an ungrateful wretch.

I had better explain here how I got on to the staff of the _Débats_. One day, being utterly wretched and not knowing where to turn for money, I wrote an extravagantly amusing tale called “Rubini at Calais.” These contrasts happen sometimes.

A few days after it came out in the _Gazette Musicale_, the _Journal des Débats_ reproduced it, with a few words of cordial appreciation from the editor.

I went to thank M. Bertin, who offered me the proud post of musical editor. This enabled me to throw up my least well-paid work; yet, all the same, I abominate criticism, and feel quite ill from the moment I see the advertisement of a new performance until I have written my article on it. The ever-recurring task poisons my life. I hate circumlocution, diplomacy, trimming, and all half-measures and concessions. They are so much gall and wormwood to me.

People call me passionate, rude, spiteful, prejudiced. O scrubby louts! If you but knew all I _want_ to write of you, you would find your present bed of nettles a couch of roses compared to the gridiron on which I long to toast you!

At least I can truly say that never have I grudged the fullest, most heartfelt praise to all that aims at the good and true and beautiful--even when it emanates from my bitterest foes.

One day Armand Bertin, who was grieved at my narrow circumstances, told me he had heard that I was to be appointed professor of composition at the Conservatoire, in spite of Cherubini. M. X., whom I met at the Opera, confirmed it, and I begged him to tender my thanks to the Minister for a position that would be to me assured comfort.

That was the last I heard of it.

Still I got something--the post of librarian, which I still hold and which brings me in 118 francs a month.

While I was in England,[14] several worthy patriots tried to eject me, and it was only the kind intervention of Victor Hugo--who had some authority in the Chamber--that saved it for me. Another good friend of mine was M. Charles Blanc, who became Director of Fine Arts, and frequently helped me with a ready warmth I shall never forget.

XXIV

FRIENDS IN NEED

And now for my opera and its deadly failure.

The strange career of Benvenuto Cellini had made such an impression on me that I stupidly concluded that it would be both dramatic and interesting to other people. I therefore asked Léon de Wailly and Auguste Barbier to write me a libretto on it. I must own that even our friends thought it had not the elements essential to success, but it pleased me, and even now I cannot see that it is inferior to many others that are played daily.

In order to please the management of the _Débats_, Duponchel, manager of the Opera--who looked upon me as a species of lunatic--read the libretto and agreed to take my opera. After which he went about saying that he was going to put it on, not on account of the music, which was ridiculous, but of the book, which was charming.

Never shall I forget the misery of those three months’ rehearsals. The indifference of the actors, riding for a fall, Habeneck’s bad temper, the vague rumours I heard on all sides, all betrayed a general hostility against which I was powerless. It was worse when we came to the orchestra. The executants, seeing Habeneck’s surly manner, were cold and reserved with me. Still they did their duty, which he did not. He never could manage the quick _tempo_ of the saltarello; the dancers, unable to dance to his dragging measure, complained to me. I cried:

“Faster! Faster! Wake up!”

Habeneck, in a rage, hit his desk and broke his bow.

After several exhibitions of temper of this sort I said, calmly:

“My good sir, breaking fifty bows will not prevent your time being twice as slow as it ought to be. This is a saltarello.”

He turned to the orchestra.

“Since it is impossible to please M. Berlioz,” said he, “we will stop for to-day. You may go.”

If only I could have conducted myself! But in France authors are not allowed to direct their own works in theatres.

Years later I conducted my _Carnaval Romain_, where that very saltarello comes in, without the wind instruments having any rehearsal at all; and Habeneck, certain that I should come to grief, was present. I rushed the allegro at the proper time and everything went perfectly.

The audience cried “encore,” and the second time was even better than the first. I met Habeneck as we went out, and threw four words at him over my shoulder.

“That’s how it goes.” He did not reply.

I never felt so happy conducting as I did that day; the thought of the torments Habeneck had made me suffer increased my pleasure.

* * * * *

But to return to _Benvenuto_.

Gradually the larger part of the orchestra came over to my side, and several declared that this was the most original score they had ever played. Duponchel heard them and said:

“Was ever such a right-about face? Now they think Berlioz’ music charming, and the idiots are praising it up to the skies.”

Still some malcontents remained, and two were found one night playing _J’ai du bon tabac_ instead of their parts.

It was just the same on the stage. The dancers pinched their partners, who, by their shrieks, upset the chorus. When, in despair, I sent for Duponchel he was never to be found; attending rehearsal was beneath his dignity.

The opera came on at last. The overture made a furore, the rest was unmercifully hissed. However it was played three times.

It is fourteen years (I write in 1850) since I was thus pilloried at the opera, and I have just read over my poor score, carefully and impartially. I cannot help thinking that it shows an originality, a raciness and a brilliancy that I shall, probably, never have again and which deserve a better fate.[15]

_Benvenuto_ took me a long time to write and would never have been ready--tied as I was by my bread-earning journalistic work--had it not been for the help of a friend.

It was heart-breaking, and I had almost given up the opera in despair when Ernest Legouvé came to me, asking:

“Is your opera done?”

“First act not even ready yet. I have no time to compose.”

“But supposing you had time----”

“I would write from dawn till dark.”

“How much would make you independent?”

“Two thousand francs.”

“And suppose someone--If someone--Come, do help me out!”

“With what? What do you mean?”

“Why, suppose a friend lent it to you?”

“What friend could I ask for such a sum?”

“You needn’t ask when I offer it----”

Think of my relief! In real truth, next day Legouvé lent me two thousand francs, and I finished _Benvenuto_. His noble heart--writer and artist as he was--guessed my trouble and feared to wound me by his offer! I have been fortunate in having many staunch friends.

Paganini was back in Paris when _Benvenuto_ was slaughtered; he felt for me deeply and said:

“If I were a manager I would commission that young man to write me three operas. He should be paid in advance, and I should make a splendid thing by it.”

Mortification and the suppressed rage in which I had lived during those everlasting rehearsals, brought on a bad attack of bronchitis that kept me in bed, unable to work.

But we had to live, and I determined to give two concerts at the Conservatoire. The first barely paid its expenses so, as an attraction, I advertised the _Fantastique_ and _Harold_ together for the 16th December 1838.

Now Paganini, although it was written at his desire, had never heard _Harold_, and, after the concert, as I waited--trembling, exhausted, bathed in perspiration--he, with his little son, Achille, appeared at the orchestra door, gesticulating violently. Consumption of the throat, of which he afterwards died, prevented his speaking audibly and Achille alone could interpret his wishes.

He signed to the child, who climbed on a chair and put his ear close to his father’s mouth, then turning to me he said:

“Monsieur, my father orders me to tell you that never has he been so struck by music. He wishes to kneel and thank you.”

Confused and embarrassed, I could not speak, but Paganini seized my arm, hoarsely ejaculating, “Yes! Yes!” dragged me into the theatre where several of my players still lingered--and there knelt and kissed my hand.

Coming away in a fever from this strange scene, I met Armand Bertin; stopping to speak to him in that intense cold sent me home to bed worse than ever. Next day, as I lay, ill and alone, little Achille came in.

“My father will be very sorry you are ill,” he said, “if he had not been ill himself he would have come to see you. He told me to give you this letter.”

As I began to open it, the child stopped me:

“He said you must read it alone. There is no answer.” And he hurried out.

I supposed it just a letter of congratulation; but here it is:

“DEAR FRIEND,--Only Berlioz can recall Beethoven, and I, who have heard that divine work--so worthy of your genius--beg you to accept the enclosed 20,000 francs, as a tribute of respect.--Believe me ever, your affectionate friend,

NICCOLO PAGANINI.

“PARIS, _18th Dec. 1838_.”

I knew enough Italian to make out the letter, but it surprised me so greatly that my head swam, and, without thinking of what I was doing, I opened the little note which was enclosed and addressed to M. de Rothschild. It was in French and ran:

“MONSIEUR LE BARON,--Would you be so good as to hand over the 20,000 francs that I deposited yesterday to M. Berlioz.

PAGANINI.”

Then I understood.

My wife, coming in, thought that some new trouble had fallen upon us.

“What is it now?” she cried. “Be brave! we have borne so much already.”

“No, no--not that----”

“What then?”

“Paganini--has sent me--20,000 francs!”

“Louis! Louis!” cried Henriette, rushing for her boy, “come here to your mother and thank God.”

And together they knelt by my bed--grateful mother and wondering child. Oh Paganini! why could you not be there to see?

Naturally, my first thought was to thank him. My letter seemed so poor, so inadequate, that I am ashamed to give it here. There are feelings beyond words.

His munificent kindness was soon noised abroad and my room besieged by friends anxious to know the facts. All rejoiced and some were jealous--not of me, but of Paganini, who was rich enough to do such deeds. Then began the comments, fury and lies of my opponents, followed by the congratulatory letter of Janin and his eloquent article in the _Débats_.

For a week I lay in bed, burning with impatience to see and thank my benefactor. Then I hurried to his house and found him in the billiard-room. We embraced in silence then, as I poured forth broken thanks, he spoke and--thanks to the silence of the room--I was able to make out his words.

“Not a word! It is so little and has given me the greatest pleasure of my life. You cannot tell how much your music moves me. Ah!” he cried, with a blow of his fist on the table, “now your enemies will be silenced for they know I understand and am not easily satisfied.”

But great as was his name it was not great enough to silence the dogs of Paris; in a few weeks they were again baying at my heels.

My earnest wish, now that all debts were paid and a handsome sum remained in hand, was to write a masterpiece, grand, impassioned, original, worthy of dedication to the master to whom I owed so much.

But Paganini, growing worse, had left for Nice, whence alas! he returned no more. I consulted him as to a suitable theme, but he replied:

“I cannot advise you. You best know what suits you best.”

After much wavering I fixed on a choral symphony on Shakespeare’s _Romeo and Juliet_, and wrote the prose words for the choral portion, which Emile Deschamps, with his usual kindness and extraordinary versatility, put into poetry for me.

Ah! the joy of no more newspaper articles!--or at least hardly any. Paganini had given me money to make music, and I made it. For seven months, with only a few days’ intermission, did I work at my symphony.

And, during those months, what a burning, exhilarating life I led! Ah! the joy of floating on the halcyon sea of poetry; wafted onward by the sweet soft breeze of imagination; warmed by the rays of that golden sun of love unveiled by Shakespeare! I felt within me the god-like strength to win my way to that blessed hidden isle, where the temple of pure art raises its soaring columns to the sky.

To others must I leave it to say whether I ever truly looked upon its glories.

Such as it was, my symphony was performed three times running, and each time appeared to be a great success. To my sorrow, Paganini never heard it nor read it. I hoped to see him again in Paris; then to send him the printed score; but he died at Nice leaving to me the poignant sorrow that he would never judge whether the work, undertaken to please him and to justify his faith in its author, was worthy of his great trust.

He, too, seemed sorry not to have known it, and in his letter of the 7th January 1840, he wrote:

“Now it is well done; jealousy can but be silent.”

Dear, noble friend! He never saw the ribald nonsense written about my work; how one called my _Queen Mab_ music a badly-oiled squirt, how another--speaking of the _Love-Scene_, which musicians place in the forefront of my work--said I _did not understand Shakespeare_!

Empty-headed toad, bursting with stupid self-importance! If you could prove that....

Never was I more deeply hurt by criticism, and yet none of these high priests of art deigned to point out the faults, which I thankfully corrected, when told of them.

For instance, Ernst’s secretary, M. Frankoski, wrote from Vienna saying that the end of _Queen Mab_ was too abrupt; I therefore wrote the present coda and destroyed the original one.

The criticisms of M. d’Ortigue I also appreciated. The rest of the alterations were my own.

But the symphony is enormously difficult for the executants, both in form and style, and needs most careful, conscientious practice and perfect conducting--which means that none but first-rate artists in each department could possibly do it.

For this reason it will never be given in London. They do not give enough time to rehearsals. The musicians there have no time for music.[16]

XXV

BRUSSELS--PARIS OPERA CONCERT

_To_ FRANZ LISZT.

“PARIS, _6th August 1839_.--I long, dear friend, to tell you all the musical news--at least all that I know. Not that you will find anything new in it. You must be quite _blasé_ with studying Italian modes of thought; they are dreadfully like Parisian ones.

“I know you have not the heart to laugh at them, for you are not of those who find subject for mirth in the insults offered to our Muse--you would rather, at any cost, hide the blemishes upon her snowy robes and the woful rents in her shimmering veil of light.

“So I will content myself with calmly stating facts and retailing news, whereby I can preserve a dignified quiet, and can simply deal out remarks without theorising.

“The day before yesterday, as I was smoking a cigar in the Boulevard des Italiens, Batta caught me by the arm.

“‘What are they up to in London?’ I asked.

“‘Nothing whatever. They despise music and poetry and drama--everything. They go to the Italian Opera because the Queen goes, and that’s all. I feel quite thankful not to be out of pocket and to have been clapped at two or three concerts. That is all the British hospitality I can boast of. Even Artot, in spite of his Philharmonic success, was horribly bored.’

“‘And Doehler?’

“‘Bored also.’

“‘Thalberg?’

“‘Is cultivating the provinces.’

“‘Benedict----’

“‘Encouraged by the success of his first attempt, is writing an English opera.’

“‘Well, I’m off. Come to Hallé’s to-night, we are going to drink and have some music.’

“M. Hallé is a young German pianist--tall, thin, and long-haired--who plays magnificently, and seems to get at music by instinct rather than by notes--that is to say, he is rather like you. Real talent, immense knowledge, perfect execution, are among the gifts we all recognise in him.

“Hallé and Batta played Mendelssohn’s B flat sonata, then we had a chorus over our beer, then Beethoven’s A major sonata, of which the first movement excited us wildly, and the minuet and finale drove us to the verge of lunacy.

“Oh you untiring vagabond! when will you return, once more to preside over our nights of music?

“Between ourselves, you always had too many people at your gatherings--too much talk, too little listening. You, alone, wasted an amount of inspiration that was enough to turn one giddy, without all the rest of the folks in addition.

“Do you remember that evening at Legouvé’s when--the lights put out--you played the C sharp minor sonata, we five lying in the dark on the floor? My tears and Legouvé’s, Schoelcher’s wondering respect, Goubeaux’s astonishment! Ah me! you were indeed sublime that night!

“But to get back to news.

“There is a glorious row toward between our Opera troupe and the Italian; they want to unite them in the Rue Le Pelletier. It will be rather a shock. Lablache against Levasseur, Rubini against Duprez, Tamburini against Dérivis, Grisi against Mdlle. Naudin and the whole lot against the big drum.

“We mean to be there to pick up the dead and the dying. Lots of people find fault with the Opera orchestra, they say they do not keep in tune, that the right-hand side tends to get a quarter-tone higher than the left--which these gentlemen consider most unreasonable----

“‘You seem to suffer in silence,’ one of them said to me the other day.

“‘I? I did not say I suffered at all,’ I replied. ‘First, because I never said a word, and secondly, because....’

“Sometimes when they are at their wit’s end they play _Don Giovanni_. If Mozart could come back to this world, he would tell them (like Molière’s president) that he would not have it _played_.

“The other day, Ambroise Thomas, Morel, and I were saying we would give five hundred francs for a good performance of Spontini’s _Vestale_; that set us off--we know it by heart--and we went on singing it till midnight.

“But we missed you for our accompaniments.

“I am just pouring out news as it comes into my head. Hiller has sent me part of his _Romilda_ from Milan. One of our enemies wished to throw himself off the Vendome Column the other day. He gave the keeper forty francs to let him go up--then changed his mind and walked down again.

“Chopin is still away; they said he was very ill, but there is no truth in it. Dumas has just written an exquisite thing--_Mademoiselle de Belle Isle_--but that is out of my province. There! no more news.

“My indifferentism does not extend to you and your long absence. Come back soon. It is high time you did, both for us and, I hope, for yourself too. Adieu.”

In 1840 the Government proposed celebrating the tenth anniversary of the Revolution by exceptional ceremonies, and the Minister of the Interior, M. de Remusat, who, like M. de Gasparin, had a soul for music, commissioned me to write a symphony, leaving form and all details entirely to me.

I planned a great symphony, on broad, simple lines, and as it was to be played in the open air where delicate orchestral effects would be lost, I engaged a military band of two hundred men.

Habeneck was anxious to conduct but, remembering the snuff trick, I preferred to do my own conducting.

Most fortunately, I invited a large audience to the final rehearsal, feeling sure that my work could not be properly judged on the day of performance.

And so it proved. On the great Place de la Bastille, ten yards away, you could make out nothing, and to make things worse, the legions of the National Guard marched off right in the middle, to the rattle of fifty kettledrums. That is the way music is always honoured in France at public _fêtes_, apparently they think it is meant to please--the eye.

Towards the end of this year I made my first musical venture out of France, as M. Snel, of Brussels, asked me to direct some of my works for the _Société de la Grande Harmonie_ in the Belgian capital.