Part 17

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

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

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

* * * * *

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

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

_To_ LOUIS BERLIOZ.

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

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

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

“My uncle and all my friends agree with me.

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

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

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

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

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

“Good-bye, dear Louis.”

XXXIII

DEAD SEA FRUIT

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

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

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

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

I could play it.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

After that they avoided my works like the plague.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

_To_ AUGUSTE MOREL.

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

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

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

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

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

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

_To_ RICHARD WAGNER.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Write me down an ass until further orders.”

XXXIV

1863--GATHERING TWILIGHT

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

The _ensemble_ was marvellous.

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

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

_Letters to_ FERRAND and LOUIS BERLIOZ from 1858 to 1863.

_To_ HUMBERT FERRAND.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

* * * * *

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

* * * * *

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

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

_To_ LOUIS BERLIOZ.

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

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

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

* * * * *

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

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

* * * * *

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

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

* * * * *

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

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

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

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