Part 13

Nothing but a regular _coup d’état_ at home made the execution of this plan possible. On one pretext or another, my wife had always set her face against my leaving Paris, her real reason being a most foolish and unfounded jealousy, for which there was absolutely no cause.

But constant accusations forced me, in time, to justify them and to take advantage of the position with which she credited me.

Smuggling my music out of the house by degrees, I finally departed secretly, leaving a letter of explanation and, accompanied by the lady who has since been my constant travelling companion,[17] I went off to Brussels.

To cut short these sad and sordid details--after many painful scenes, an amicable separation was arranged. I often saw my wife, my affection for her remained unchanged--indeed, the miserable state of her health but made her dearer to me.

This is sufficient to explain my conduct to those who have only known me since that time; I shall not recur to the subject as I am distinctly not writing confessions.

I gave two concerts in Brussels, where opinions were, as usual, divided about me as in Paris. Fétis chose to find fault with my (perfectly correct) harmony, and I was rather tempted to reply to him in one of the papers, but finally decided to stick to my invariable rule to reply to no criticism whatsoever.

This being merely a trial trip, I arranged to spend five or six months on tour in Germany, and therefore returned straight to Paris to give a colossal farewell concert.

I explained my wish to M. Pillet, director of the Opera, who was quite willing to allow me the use of the theatre.

But it was necessary to keep it secret so that Habeneck might not have time to counterplot, as he would hardly look with a favourable eye on anyone who supplanted him at the conductor’s desk.

I, therefore, prepared all my music and engaged my performers without telling them where the concert would be held, and when all was ready I asked M. Pillet to tell Habeneck that the concert was entirely in my hands. But he dared not face his terrible chief, and it fell to my lot to write and inform him of our arrangements.

He received my letter during a rehearsal, read it several times, looked very black, then went down to the office and said that the plan suited him exactly, as he wished to go into the country the day of the concert. Still his disgust was quite evident, and it was shared by a part of his orchestra, who thought to pay court to him by shewing it.

The concert was for the benefit of the Opera, but I was to have five hundred francs for my share and the Opera staff were to get no extra remuneration whatever. Mindful of my experience with the Théâtre Italien, I determined to devote my five hundred francs to the payment of these men, all the more readily that I felt thunder in the air in the form of Habeneck’s savage looks, the numbers of the _Charivari_ (which cut me up tremendously) on the desks, and the constant little confabulations that went on in odd corners.

I engaged six hundred performers from different theatres and from the Conservatoire, and in a week managed to drill them into something like order, how I cannot imagine.

I was on foot, baton in hand, the whole day, going from the Opera to the Théâtre Italien, whence I engaged the chorus; thence to the Opera Comique and to the Conservatoire to superintend different parts, for I dared not relegate a single department to anyone else.

Then, in the foyer of the Opera, I took the stringed instruments from eight till twelve, and the wind from twelve to four. My throat was on fire, my voice gone, my right arm almost paralysed. One day I should have been ill with thirst and fatigue had not a kind chorus-singer had the humanity to bring me a large glass of hot wine.

The players of the Opera made me as much trouble as possible; they learnt that the outside performers were to have twenty francs a piece, so they demanded a like sum.

“Not for the money,” said they, “but for the honour of the Opera.”

“You shall have your twenty francs,” I cried; “but for heaven’s sake go on and let me have a little peace.”

On the day of the grand rehearsal all went fairly well, except the _Queen Mab_ scherzo, which is too dainty to be treated by so large a body of players. Unfortunately I did not think, at the time, of entrusting it to a small band of picked musicians, so was reluctantly obliged to cut it altogether out of the programme.

On the day of the performance I had hoped to keep quiet until the evening, but my friend, Leon Gatayes, came in to tell me that a plot was being hatched by Habeneck’s partizans (who were indignant at his being passed over) to ruin the whole affair. The drum parchments were to be slit, the bows of the double-basses greased, and in the middle of the concert a section of the audience was to shout for the _Marseillaise_.

After this, needless to say, I did not take much rest. Prowling restlessly round the Opera, I had the good luck to meet Habeneck; I caught him by the arm.

“I hear your musicians are going to play me some tricks. I have my eye on them.”

“Oh, it’s all right,” he answered. “I have talked to them; you need not be afraid.”

“I am not afraid: on the contrary, I am comforting _you_. You see, if anything happened, it would fall pretty heavily on you. But make your mind easy; they won’t do anything.”

And they did not. My copyist had been all day in the theatre guarding the drum and double-basses, and I myself went round to all the desks to ensure each man having his own part.

Indeed I was made quite ashamed of myself when I got to the Dauverné brothers; one of them looked up and said reproachfully:

“Berlioz, surely you don’t doubt us? Aren’t we decent fellows and your friends?”

I grew quite hot and stopped my investigations, for which, it must be owned, there really was some excuse.

Nothing went wrong and my _Requiem_ produced its due effect, but during the interval, according to rumour, Habeneck’s cabal howled for the _Marseillaise_. I went to the front of the stage and shouted at the top of my lungs:

“We will _not_ play the _Marseillaise_; that is not what we are here for,” and peace reigned once more.

Although the receipts were eight thousand five hundred francs, the sum put aside to pay the musicians was not sufficient to fulfil my promises to them, and I had to supplement it by three hundred and fifty out of my own pocket, as the red ink entry in the cashier’s book at the Opera testifies to this day.

Thus I organised the most tremendous concert Paris had ever known, and was three hundred and fifty francs put of pocket for my pains. I was likely to grow rich!

M. Pillet is a gentleman and I never could understand how he allowed it; perhaps the cashier never told him.

I left for Germany a few days later on my pilgrimage. It was hard work truly, but it was at least _musical_ hard work, and I had the untold happiness of being safe away from the intrigues and platitudes of Paris and among sympathetic musical people.

XXVI

HECHINGEN--WEIMAR

My tour began with trouble; I had intended giving a concert in Brussels, as Madame Nathan-Treillet, the idol of the Bruxellois, had kindly promised to come from Paris purposely to sing for me. But she fell seriously ill, and we knew that not all the symphonies in the world would make up for her absence.

When the catastrophe was announced the Grande Harmonie promptly fainted _en bloc_, pipes went out as if from want of air, and people dispersed groaning. In vain did I say, “Be calm! There will be no concert; you will be spared the misery of listening to my music. Surely that compensation is not to be despised!” It availed naught. _Their eyes wept tears of beer et nolebant consolari_ because she came not. So my concert went to the devil.

Time passed; I was obliged to go on leaving the poor Belgians to their fate. My anxiety for them, however, soon melted as I embarked on my Rhine journey and went up to Mainz, hoping to be able to arrange a concert there.

I first went to Schott, patriarch of music publishers, who seemed rather as if he belonged to the household of the Sleeping Beauty, his somnolent sentences being interspersed with long silences.

“I don’t think--you hardly will be able--give a concert--there is--no orchestra--no public--no money.”

Not being overburdened with patience, I went straight to the station and off to Frankfort. To add fuel to my fire, the train was asleep too; it “made haste slowly”; it did not _go_; it dawdled and, particularly that day, made interminable organ pedal-points at each station. But every adagio has an end, and finally I got to Frankfort--a well-built, bright town, very much alive and up to date.

Next day, crossing the square on my way to the theatre, I came up with some young men carrying wind-instruments and asked them--since they evidently belonged to the orchestra--to take my card to Guhr, the chief.

“Ah,” said one, who spoke French, “we are glad to see you. M. Guhr told us you were coming. We have done _King Lear_ twice, and though we cannot offer you your Conservatoire orchestra, perhaps you will not be very displeased with us.”

Guhr appeared, sharp, incisive, with snapping dark eyes and quick gestures; it was easy to see that he would not err on the side of indulgence with his orchestra. He spoke French but not fluently enough for his wishes, so he tumbled over his sentences, which were interlarded with oaths in a thick German accent, with most ludicrous results.

The upshot of his flow of eloquence was that the two Milanollo girls were creating such a furore that no other music would have the slightest chance of success.

He was voluble in excuses and ended:

“What can I do, my dear fellow? These infant prodigies make money; French Vaudevilles make money--I can’t refuse money, can I? But do stay till to-morrow and you shall hear _Fidelio_ with Pischek and Mdlle. Capitaine and you can give me your opinion of them.”

So it was arranged that I should go on to Stuttgart and try my fortunes with Lindpaintner, leaving the Frankfurters to cool down after the fever caused by the charming little sisters, whom I had praised and applauded in Paris but who got sadly in my way in Frankfort.

_Fidelio_ was beautifully sung by Mdlle. Capitaine; she is not a brilliant singer, but of all the women I heard in Germany I like her best in her own style. In a box I espied my old friend, Ferdinand Hiller, and a moment we were back on our student-comrade footing of years before. He is at work on an oratorio _The Fall of Jerusalem_; I am sorry that I have never been in Frankfort for one of his concerts to hear and judge of his compositions, which I am told are of a very high order.

My first care was to get as much information as I could on the musical resources of Stuttgart, for I found the expenses of carrying so much concerted music about with me something enormous and only wished to take what I might fairly expect to be performed. I finally decided on two symphonies, an overture and some choral pieces, leaving all the rest with that unlucky Guhr, who seemed fated to be bothered with me and my music in some way or other.

I had a letter of introduction to a Dr Schilling, whose title made me shudder. I pictured an aged pedant in spectacles and red wig, armed with a snuff-box and astride his hobbies, fugue and counterpoint, caring for nothing but Bach and Marpurg and hating modern music in general and mine in particular.

So much for preconceived ideas.

Dr Schilling was young, wore no spectacles, had a handsome crop of black hair, smoked, took no snuff, never mentioned fugues or canons and showed no dislike for modern music--not even mine.

He spoke French about as badly as I did German and our intercourse was not precisely on the lines of Herder and Kant. I made out that I could either apply for the loan of the theatre, which would mean freedom from expense and ensure the presence of the King and Court or else could engage the _Salle de la Redoute_, where I should have everything to manage and which the King never entered.

I sought an interview with Baron von Topenheim, superintendent of the theatre, who most kindly assured me that he would speak to the King that evening:

“But,” he added, “I think I ought to tell you that the acoustic of the theatre is vile and that of the _Salle de la Redoute_ is good.”

I was nonplussed and could only go and see if Lindpaintner would advise me what to do. I do not know how to express my feelings towards him, but at the end of ten minutes we might have been friends of ten years’ standing.

“First,” said he, “do not be deceived as to the musical importance of our town--we have neither money nor public. (I thought of Mainz and father Schott)! But since you are here we certainly cannot let you go without hearing some of your works, about which we are very curious. So you must take the _Redoute_ and as far as players are concerned, if you will only give about eighty francs to their pension fund, they will think it an honour to rehearse and to perform under your baton. Come to-night and hear _Freyschütz_ and I will introduce you and you will see that I am right.”

He was as good as his word and all my fears melted away. Here was a young, fiery, enthusiastic orchestra. I saw that from the way they played Weber.

They were intrepid readers, too, nothing upset, nothing disconcerted them, they never missed a single sign of expression either. I had chosen the _Symphonie Fantastique_ and _Francs-Juges_ and trembled for my syncopations, my four notes against three, my unusual rhythms; but they plunged straight in without a single mistake.

I was astounded, for with two rehearsals the whole thing was done.

It would have been grand had not illness on the day of the concert taken away half my violins and left me with four firsts and four seconds to fight that mass of wind and percussion. It was the more harrowing, in that the King and Court were there in full force; still it was intelligent and sympathetic, and the audience applauded everything warmly except the _Pilgrim’s March_ from _Harold_, which fell flat. I found it do so again when I separated it from the rest of the symphony, which shows what a mistake it is to divide up some compositions.

After the concert I was congratulated by the King, by Prince Jerome Bonaparte and by Count Niepperg, but I am afraid Lindpaintner, whose approval was more to me than all, hated everything but the overture. I am sure Dr Schilling found it hideous and was quite ashamed of having introduced such a musical free-lance to his quiet town.

However, being Councillor of State to the Prince of Hohenzollern-Hechingen, he wrote and told His Highness of the savage he had in tow, thinking that the said savage would find a more appropriate setting in the wilds of the Black Forest than in civilised Stuttgart.

The savage therefore--receiving a cordial invitation from the Prince’s Privy Councillor, Baron de Billing--and being avid of new sensations, took his way through the snow and the great pine woods to the little town of Hechingen, without in the least troubling about what he should do when he got there.

I never recall this Black Forest journey without a medley of pleasant, sad, sweet and troubled remembrances that strangely stir my heart. The double mourning--white of the snow and black of the trees--spread over the mountains; the cold wind’s dreary moan among the shivering, restless pines; the ceaseless gnawing of sorrow at my heart, grown stronger in this solitude, the bitter cold, then the arrival at Hechingen, bright faces, gracious prince, _fêtes_, concerts, laughter, promises to meet in Paris, then--good-bye--and once more the darkness and the cold!

Ah! what do I suffer even yet! What demon started me thinking of it? But that is my way--without apparent cause, I am tormented, possessed, just as in certain electric states of the air the leaves rustle without wind.

But back to Hechingen. The ruler of this minute principality was an intellectual young man who seemed to have but two objects in life--to make his people happy and to worship music.

Can one imagine a more perfect existence?

His subjects adored him and music loved him, for he understood her both as poet and musician, and had composed some touching songs.

He had a tiny orchestra, conducted by Täglichsbeck, whom I had met five years earlier in Paris, and who received me with open-hearted kindness.

It was most amusing to see me adapting my big orchestral works to this little band, but, by dint of patience and goodwill all round, we did wonders and gave _King Lear_, the _Pilgrims’ March_, the _Ball Scene_, and other excerpts in really good style.

Still, of course, I could not help longing for wider scope, and when the Prince came to compliment me, I said:

“Ah! I would give two years of my life if Your Highness could hear that with my Conservatoire orchestra.”

“Yes! yes!” he said. “I know that you have an imperial orchestra that calls you ‘Sire,’ while I am but a Highness. I mean to go to Paris and hear it one day--one day.”

After the concert we supped at his villa, and his charming brightness infected us all. Wishing me to hear a trio he had composed for piano, tenor, and ’cello, Täglichsbeck took the piano, the Prince the air, and I, amid laughter and applause, tried to sing the ’cello part. My high A simply brought down the house.

Two days later I returned to Stuttgart.

The snow was melting on the mourning pines, stained was the fair white mantle of the mountains--all was dreary and woe-worn--again at my heart gnawed the worm that dieth not----

The rest is silence.

_To_ FRANZ LISZT.

“You, my dear Liszt, know nothing of the uncertainties of the wandering musician. You never have a moment’s anxiety as to whether, when you get to a town, there will be a decent orchestra or a theatre ready for you. To parody Louis XIV. you can say:

“‘Orchestra, chorus, conductor are myself.’

“A grand piano and a large hall are the extent of your needs. But a poor travelling composer like myself depends upon a combination most difficult to arrange and at any moment liable to be upset. How much thought, precaution, fatigue it all requires. Yet look at the reward!

“Think of the compensation of _playing on an orchestra_, of having under one’s hand this vast living instrument!

“You _virtuosi_ are princes and kings by the grace of God, you are born on the steps of the throne; we composers must fight and conquer before we reign. Yet the difficulties and dangers surmounted add brilliance to our victories, and we should perhaps be happier than you--if we always had soldiers.

“But this is a digression.

“At Stuttgart I waited, hardly knowing what plans to make, until a favourable answer came to my letter of enquiry addressed to Weimar. Meanwhile I had another experience of the coldness of Germans towards Beethoven.

“Lindpaintner conducted a magnificent performance of the Leonore overture at the Redoute Society’s concert, which elicited but the faintest applause, and I heard a gentleman say afterwards that he wished they would give Haydn’s symphonies instead of that noisy music without any tune in it!!!

“Really now, we do not own such Philistines as that in Paris!

“I went to Weimar _via_ Carlsruhe (where there was nothing to be done) and Mannheim--a cold, calm, respectable town, where love of music will never keep the inhabitants awake.

“The younger Lachner, a real artist, both modest and talented, is director there; he hurriedly arranged a concert for me, and was deeply grieved because the ineptitude of his trombones forbade our giving the _Orgie_ in _Harold_.

“Mannheim bored me horribly, and it was an intense relief to get away and breathe freely once more.

“Behold me then again afloat on the Rhine--I meet Guhr, still swearing--I leave him--meet our friend Hiller, who tells me his _Fall of Jerusalem_ is ready--I leave, in company with a magnificent sore throat--sleep on the way--dream frightful things that I will not repeat--reach Weimar, thoroughly ill--Lobe and Chélard try in vain to prop me up--preparations for concert--first rehearsal--I rejoice and am cured.

“There is something broad, cultivated, liberal about the very air of Weimar. Calm, luminous, peaceful, dreamy--how my heart beat as I paced the streets!

“Here is the summer-house of Goethe where the late Grand Duke used to come to take part in the discussions of Schiller, Herder, and Wieland. There, a Latin inscription traced by the author of _Faust_. Those two attic windows, are they indeed those of Schiller? Was it this humble roof that sheltered the mighty enthusiasm of the author of _Don Carlos_? Was it right of Goethe, the rich and powerful minister, thus to leave his friend in poverty? I fear me that it was true friendship on the side of Schiller only--Goethe loved himself too well, he lived too long and death was to him a terror.

“Schiller! Schiller! you deserved a less human friend!

“It is one in the morning, with bitter cold and a brilliant moon. I stand entranced before that small dark house; all is silent in this city of the dead.

“Within me surges up that passion of respect, regret, and love for the genius that stretches out a hand from beyond the cold dark grave, and lays a mighty finger on us poor obscure earth wanderers, and upon that humble threshold I kneel, murmuring brokenly, ‘Schiller! Schiller!’

“But I am no nearer the subject of my letter, dear friend; to soothe myself I must think of another dweller in Weimar, the talented but cold Hummel.

“That calms me; I feel better!

“Chélard, as Frenchman, artist, and friend, has done everything possible to help me, and the Baron von Spiegel, the superintendent, has most kindly offered me the theatre and orchestra. He did not add the chorus, which was just as well, for I heard them trying to do Marschner’s _Vampire_, and a more ghastly collection of squallers I never heard.

“Of the women soloists, too, the less said the better.

“But are there words to describe the bass--Génast? Is he not a true artist, a born tragedian? I wish I could have stayed long enough to hear him in Shakespeare’s _King Lear_, which they were mounting.

“The orchestra is good, but, to do me special honour, Chélard and Lobe hunted up every available extra instrument in the place; there was no harp to be found, but a good pianist and perfect musician, named Montag, kindly arranged my harp parts and played them on the piano.

“Everyone was eagerly ready to help, and you may imagine the rare and extreme joy of being promptly understood and followed. I will spare you a description of the applause and recalls, the compliments of their Highnesses, and the many new friends who, waiting at the stage door, bore me off and kept me till three o’clock next morning.

“Where, oh where is my modesty that I retail all this? Adieu!”

XXVII

MENDELSSOHN--WAGNER

_To_ STEPHEN HELLER.

“On leaving Weimar, my dear Heller, my easiest plan seemed to be to go to Leipzig, but I hesitated because Felix Mendelssohn was musical dictator there, and, in spite of our Roman days together, we had since followed such divergent lines that I could not be sure of a sympathetic reception. Chélard, however, made me ashamed of my misgivings. I wrote, and Mendelssohn replied so warmly and promptly, bidding me welcome to Leipzig, that I could not resist such an invitation, but set off at once, regretfully leaving Weimar and my new friends.

“My relations with Mendelssohn in Rome had been rather curious. At our first meeting I had expressed a great dislike to the first allegro in my _Sardanapalus_.