Part 18

“How can I teach you patience? Your mania for marriage would make me laugh were I not saddened by seeing you striving after the heaviest of all fetters and after the sordid vexations of domestic life--the most hopeless and exasperating of all lives. You are twenty-six, and have eighteen hundred francs, with a prospect of rapid promotion. When I married your mother I was thirty, and had but three hundred francs in the world--lent me by my friend Gounet--and the balance of my Prix de Rome scholarship.

“Then there were your mother’s debts--nearly fourteen thousand francs--which I paid off gradually, and the necessity of sending money to her mother in England, besides which I had quarrelled with my family, who cast me off, and was trying hard to make my first small mark in the musical world.

“Compare my hardships with your present discontent! Even now, do you think it is very lively for me to be bound to this infernal galley-oar of journalism?

“I am so ill I can hardly hold my pen, yet I am forced to write for my miserable hundred francs, the while my brain teems with work and plans and designs that fall dead--thanks to my slavery.

“You are well and strong, while I writhe in ceaseless, incurable pain. Marie[25] thanks you for your kind messages. She, too, is ill. Dear boy! you have at least a father, friend, devoted brother, who loves you more than you seem to think, but who wishes that your character were firmer, your mind more decided.

* * * * *

“_21st February 1861._--Wagner is turning our singers into goats. It seems impossible to disentangle this _Tannhäuser_. I hear that the last general rehearsal was awful, and only finished at one in the morning. I suppose they will get through somehow.

“Liszt is coming to prop up the charivari.

“I have refused to write the critique, and have asked d’Ortigue to do it. It is best for every reason, and besides, it will disappoint them! Never did I have so many windmills to run a-tilt of as I have this year. I am deluged with fools of every species, and am choking with anger.

* * * * *

“_5th March 1861._--The _Tannhäuser_ scandal grows apace. Everyone is raging. Even the Minister left the rehearsal in a towering passion. The Emperor is far from pleased; yet there are still a few honest enthusiasts left--even among French people.

“Wagner is decidedly mad. He will die of apoplexy, just as Jullien did last year.

“Liszt never came after all. I think he expected a fiasco. They have spent a hundred and sixty thousand francs over mounting the opera. Well, we shall see what Friday brings forth.”

* * * * *

“_21st March 1861._--The second performance of _Tannhäuser_ was worse than the first. No more laughter, the audience was too furious, and, regardless of the presence of the Emperor and Empress, hissed unmercifully. Coming out, Wagner was vituperated as a scoundrel, an idiot, an impertinent wretch. If this goes on, one day the performance will stop abruptly in the middle, and there will be an end of the whole thing.

“The press is unanimous in damning it.”

* * * * *

“_18th April 1861._--Write, dear Louis, if you can, without the cruel knife-thrusts you gave me in your last letter.

“I am worse than usual to-day, and have not strength to begin my article. I had an ovation at the Conservatoire after the performance of _Faust_. I dined with the Emperor a week ago, and exchanged a few words with him. I was magnificently bored.”

* * * * *

“_2nd June 1861._--You are worried, and I can do nothing for you. Alexis is trying to find you a position in Paris, but is unsuccessful. I am as inefficient as he is. You alone can command your fate. They wish me to bring out _Alcestis_ at the Opera as I did _Orpheus_ at the Théâtre Lyrique, and offer me full author’s rights, but I have refused for various reasons.

“They believe that, for money, artists will stultify their consciences; I mean to prove that their belief is false.[26]

“My obstinacy has offended many. Instead of amusing themselves by spoiling Gluck’s _chef d’œuvre_, I wish they would spend their money over mounting _The Trojans_. But of course they won’t, since it is the obvious thing to do! Liszt has conquered the Emperor; he played at Court last week, and has been given the Legion of Honour.

“Ah, if one only plays the piano!”

* * * * *

“_28th October 1861._--Dear Louis,--Did I not know what a terrible effect disappointment has on even the best characters, I should really feel inclined to let you have some home truths. You have wounded me mortally with a deliberate calmness that shows you were master of your language. But I can forgive, for you are not a bad son after all.

“You go too far. Is it my fault that I am not rich, that I could not let you live idly in Paris with a wife and children? Is there a shadow of justice in reproaching me as you do? For nearly three months you keep silence, then comes this ironical letter! My poor dear boy, it is not right.

“Don’t worry about your debt to the tailor; send me the bill and I will pay him.

“You ask me to beg a post for you. From whom? You know there never was a more awkward man than I at asking favours.

“Good-bye, dear son, dear friend, dear unlucky boy--unlucky by your own fault, not by mine.”

* * * * *

“_17th June 1862._--You have received my letter and telegram,[27] but I write to ask whether you can come to me in Baden on the 6th or 7th August, as I know you would enjoy hearing the last rehearsals and first performance of my opera. In my leisure moments you would be my companion, you would see my friends, we should be together.

“Could you leave your ship so near its date for sailing?

“I am not sure how much money I can send you. The expenses of that sad ceremony--the transference from St Germain--will be great.

“I am rather afraid, too, of trusting you in a gambling town, but if you will give me your word of honour not to stake a single florin I will trust you.

“My mother-in-law came back yesterday just after I had left home to find only her daughter’s body. She is nearly frantic and is constantly watched by a friend who came to our help. Think of the anguish! Write soon, my dear, dear boy.”

* * * * *

“BADEN, _10th August 1862_.--_Beatrice_ was applauded from end to end, and I was recalled more times than I could count. My friends were delighted, but I was quite unmoved, for it was one of my days of excruciating pain and nothing seemed to matter.

“To-day I am better and can enjoy their congratulations.

“You will be pleased too, but why have you left me so long without a letter? Why do they keep transferring you from boat to boat? Do not write here again as I soon go back to Paris. Now I am called and must go and thank my radiant singers.”

_To_ H. FERRAND.

“PARIS, _21st August 1862_.--I am just home from Baden, where _Beatrice_ obtained a real triumph.

“I always fly to you, be my news good or evil, I am so sure of your loving interest. Would you had been there! it would have recalled the night of the _Childhood of Christ_.

“Foes and conspirators stayed in Paris, artists and authors journeyed to Baden to be present; Madame Charton-Demeur was perfect, both as singer and actress.

“But can you believe that my neuralgia was too bad that day for me to take interest in anything? I took my place at the conductor’s desk, before that cosmopolitan audience, to direct an opera of which I had written both words and music, absolutely, deadly impassible. Whereby I conducted better than usual. I was much more nervous at the second performance.

“Benazet, who always does things royally, spent outrageously in every department. He has splendidly inaugurated the new theatre and has created a furore. They want to give _Beatrice_ at the Opera Comique, but there is no one to do the heroine since Madame Charton-Demeur is going to America.

“You would laugh at the critiques. People are finding out that I have melody; that I can be gay--in fact, really comic; that I am not _noisy_, which is rather obvious, since the heavy instruments are conspicuous by their absence.

“How much patience I should need were I not so completely indifferent. Dear friend, I suffer a perfect martyrdom daily from four in the morning till four in the afternoon. What is to become of me? I do not tell you this to make you patient under your own afflictions--my woes are no compensation to you.

“I simply cry unto you as one does to those who love and are loved. Adieu! Adieu!”

* * * * *

“_26th August 1862._--How I should love to come to you, as Madame Ferrand wishes! But I have much to do here owing to my wife’s death, and Louis has resigned his commission and is stranded. Besides, I am busy enlarging my _Beatrice_.

“I am trying to cut or untie all the bonds that hold me to Art, that I may be able to say to Death, ‘When thou wilt.’

“I dare not complain when I think of what you bear.

“Are sufferings like ours the inevitable result of our organisation? Must we be punished for having worshipped the Beautiful throughout our lives? Probably.

“We have drunk too deeply of the enchanted cup; we have pursued our ideals too far.

“Still, dear friend, you have a devoted wife to help you to bear your cross. You know nothing of the dread duet beating, night and day, into your brain--the joint voices of world-weariness and isolation!

“God grant you never may! It is saddening music.

“Good-bye! My gathering tears would make me write words that would grieve you yet more. Again, good-bye!”

* * * * *

“_3rd March 1863._--Your suppositions with regard to my depression are fortunately wrong; Louis has certainly worried me terribly, but I have forgiven him; he has found a ship and is now in Mexico.

“No; my trouble was Love. A love unsought that met me smiling, that I did not seek, that I even fought against for awhile.

“But my loneliness, my unceasing yearning for affection, conquered me; first I let myself be loved, then I more than loved in return, and at last a separation became inevitable--a separation absolute as death. That is all. I am slowly recovering, but health such as this is sad. I will say no more....

“I am glad my _Beatrice_ pleases you. I am going to Weimar, where it is now in rehearsal, to conduct a few performances in April, then I shall come back to this wilderness--Paris.

“Pray, dear friend, that my apathy may become complete, for otherwise I shall have a hard time while _The Trojans_ is in rehearsal.

“Good-bye; when I see your dear writing on my desk it calms me for the day. Never forget that.”

XXXV

THE TROJANS

By this time (1863) I had finished the dramatic work on which I had been engaged. Four years earlier, being in Weimar with Liszt’s devoted friend, the Princess of Sayn-Wittgenstein--a woman whose noble heart and mind had often been my comfort in my darkest hours--I was drawn on to speak of my love of Virgil and of my wish to compose a grand opera in Shakespearian style on the second and fourth books of the _Æneid_. I added that I knew too well the misery and worry that would be my fate to dare to embark on such a project.

Said the Princess:

“Your passion for Shakespeare and love for the classics would indeed produce a work both grand and original. You must do it.”

As I demurred, she continued:

“Listen! If you draw back from fear of petty troubles, if you are so weak as not to suffer in the cause of Cassandra and Dido, come here no more. I will never see you again!”

Once back in Paris I began the poem of _The Trojans_. Then I started on the score, and at the end of three years and a half it was finished. As I polished and repolished it I read it to many of my friends, profiting by their criticism; then I wrote to the Emperor begging him to read it and, should he judge it suitable, to use his influence to secure it a hearing at the Opera.

However, M. de Morny dissuaded me from sending my letter, and when finally _The Trojans_ saw the footlights the Emperor was not even present.

After many cruel disappointments with regard to the opera,[28] I at last succumbed to the persuasion of M. Carvalho and allowed him to set _The Trojans at Carthage_ (the second section of the opera) at the Théâtre Lyrique.

Although he received a Government subsidy of a hundred thousand francs a year, neither his theatre, singers, chorus, nor orchestra was equal to the task. Both he and I made great sacrifices, and I, out of my small income, paid some extra musicians and cut up my orchestration to bring it within his limits.

Madame Charton-Demeur, the only possible woman for Dido, most generously accepted fees far below those offered her in Madrid, but despite everything the production was incomplete; indeed, the sceneshifters made such a muddle of the storm scene that we were obliged to suppress it entirely.

As I said before, if I am to superintend a really fine representation I must have an absolutely free hand, and the good-will of every one around, otherwise I get worn out with storming at opposition, and end by resigning and letting everything go to the devil as it will.

I cannot describe what Carvalho[29] made me suffer in demanding cuts that he deemed necessary. When he dared ask no more he worked upon me through friends, whose niggling, peddling criticism drove me nearly mad. Said one:

“How about your rhapsodist with the four-stringed lyre? I daresay you are right as to archæology, but----”

“Well?”

“It is rather dangerous; people are certain to laugh.”

“H’m! laughable is it that an antique lyre should have only four notes?”

Another:

“There is a risky word in your prologue that I fairly tremble over.”

“What’s that?”

“_Triomphaux._”

“Well, why not? Is not it the plural of _triomphal_ just as _chevaux_ is of _cheval_?”

“Yes, but it is not much used.”

“Oh, confound it all! If, in an epic poem, I were to use words suited to vaudevilles and variety shows, I should not have much choice of language.”

“Well, people will certainly laugh.”

“Ha! ha! triomphaux! It is really almost as funny as Molière’s _tarte à la crême_. Ha! ha!”

A third:

“I say! You really must _not_ let Æneas come on in a helmet.”

“And why not?”

“Why, Mangin, the gutter pencil-seller, wears one. Certainly his is a mediæval one, but that doesn’t matter. The gallery cads will certainly howl ‘Hallo! there’s Mangin!’

“I see--a Trojan hero may not wear a helmet, lest he should be like Mangin!”

Number four:

“Old fellow, do something to please me!”

“What is it now?”

“Suppress Mercury. Those wings on his head and his heels are really too comical. No one ever saw anybody with wings anywhere but on their shoulders.”

“Ah, you have seen people with wings on their shoulders? I have not, but I can quite understand that wings in unexpected places are awkward. One does not often meet Mercury strolling about the streets of Paris.”

Can any one conceive what these crass idiots made me endure? In addition, I had to fight the musical ideas of Carvalho, who could not believe that, after studying opera for forty years, I knew just a little about it.

The actors alone loyally abstained from worrying me, for which forbearance I give them all most hearty thanks.

The first performance took place on the 4th November 1863. There was no hostile demonstration except the hissing of one man, and he kept on regularly up to the tenth night. Five papers said everything insulting that they could think of, but, on the other hand, fifty articles of admiring criticism--among them those of my friends, Gasperini, d’Ortigue, L. Kreutzer, and Damcke--filled me with a joyous pride to which I had too long been a stranger.

I also received many appreciative letters, and was frequently stopped in the street by strangers who begged to shake hands with the author of _The Trojans_.

Were these not compensations for the diatribes of my foes? In spite of the cutting and polishing (I called it mutilation) that my _Trojans_ suffered at the hands of Carvalho, it only ran twenty-one nights. The receipts did not reach his expectations; he cancelled the engagement of Madame Charton-Demeur, who left for Madrid, and to my great comfort my work disappeared from the play-bills.

Nevertheless, being both author and composer, my royalties for those twenty-one performances and the sale of the piano score in Paris and London amounted--to my unspeakable joy--to about the annual income I derived from the _Journal des Débats_, and I was, therefore, able to resign my post as critic.

Freedom, after thirty years of slavery! No more articles to concoct, no more platitudes to excuse, no more commonplaces to extol, no more righteous wrath to bottle up, no more lies, no more farces, no more cowardly compromises! Free! I need never more set foot in theatre! Gloria in excelsis! Thanks to _The Trojans_ the wretched quill-driver is free!!

* * * * *

My _Beatrice_, having been a success at Baden in August 1862, was translated into German, and, at the request of the Grand Duchess of Saxe-Weimar, was given at Weimar in April 1863. Their Serene Highnesses desired me to direct the two first performances, and, as usual, overwhelmed me with kindness.

So did the Prince of Hohenzollern-Hechingen, who sent his Kapellmeister to invite me to conduct a concert at Löwenberg, his present residence.

He told me that his orchestra knew all my symphonies, and wished for a programme drawn exclusively from my own works.

“Your Highness,” I said, “since your orchestra knows all, be pleased to choose for yourself. I will conduct whatever you wish.”

He therefore chose _King Lear_, the festival and love-scene from _Romeo_, the _Carnaval Romain_ overture, and _Harold in Italy_. As he had no harpist, Madame Pohl of Weimar, with her husband, was invited.

The Prince had greatly changed since my visit in 1842; he was a martyr to gout, and was, after all, unable to be present at the concert he had planned. He was keenly disappointed, for, said he, “You are not a mere conductor; you are the orchestra itself; it is hard that I cannot reap the benefit of your stay here.”

He has built a splendid music-room in the castle, with a musical library; the orchestra is composed of about fifty _musical_ musicians, and their conductor, M. Seifriz, is both patient and talented. They are not worried with lesson-giving, church or theatre work, but belong exclusively to the Prince.

My rooms were close to the concert hall, and the first afternoon, at four, a servant came to say:

“Monsieur, the orchestra awaits you.”

There I found the forty-five silent artists, instruments in hand and all in tune!!

They rose courteously to receive me, _King Lear_ was on the desk, I raised my baton and everything went with spirit, smoothness, and precision, so that--not having heard the piece for ten or twelve years--I said to myself in amazement: “It is tremendous! Can I really have written it?”

The rest was just as good, and I said to the players:

“Gentlemen, to rehearse with you is simply a farce; I have not a single objection to make.”

The Kapellmeister played the viola solo of _Harold_ perfectly (in the other pieces he returned to his violin), and I can truly say that never have I heard it more perfectly done.

And ah! how they sang the _adagio_ of _Romeo_! We were transported to Verona, Löwenberg was gone. At the end Seifriz rose and, after waiting a moment to conquer his emotion, cried in French: “There is nothing finer in music!”

Then the orchestra burst into storms of applause, and I bit my lip.... Messengers passed constantly back and forth to the poor Prince in his bed to report progress, but nothing consoled him for his absence. Every few minutes during dinner he would either send for me or a big, powdered lacquey would bring me a pencilled note on a silver salver. Sometimes I would spend half an hour at his bedside and listen to his praises. He knows all that I have written, both prose and music.

On the day of the concert a brilliant audience filled the hall; by their enthusiasm one could see that my music was an old friend. After the _Pilgrim’s March_ an officer came on to the platform and pinned on my coat the cross of Hohenzollern. The secret had been so well guarded that I had not the slightest idea of such an honour.

But it pleased me so greatly that, just for my own satisfaction, and without thought of the public, I played the orgie from _Harold_ in my very own style--furiously--so that it made me grind my teeth.

I might say much more of this charming interlude of my life, but I must only mention the exquisite cordiality of the Prince’s circle and particularly of the family of Colonel Broderotti, whose perfect French was a real relief to me, since I dislike to hear my own language badly spoken yet know no German. As I took leave of the Prince he embraced me, saying:

“You are going to Paris, my dear Berlioz, where many love you. Tell them I love them for it.”

But I must go back to _Beatrice_.

To my mind it is one of the liveliest and most original things I have ever done, although it is difficult--especially in the men’s parts. Unlike _The Trojans_ it is inexpensive to mount; but they will take precious care not to have it in Paris; they are right, it is not Parisian music at all. With his usual generosity, M. Benazet paid me four thousand francs for the music and the same for the words--eight thousand in all, and gave me another thousand to conduct it the following year.

The Maidens’ duet became very popular in Germany and I remember making the Grand Duke laugh heartily about it one night at supper. He had been catechising me on my life in Paris and my revelations anent our musical world sadly disillusioned him.

“How, when and where did you write that lovely duet?” he asked, “surely by moonlight in some romantic spot----”

“Sir,” I replied, “it was one of those scenes that artists mark and store up for future use and which come forth when needed, no matter amid what surroundings. I sketched it in at the Institute during an oration of one of my colleagues.”

“Ha! ha!” laughed he, “that speaks well for the orator. His eloquence must have been great.”

Later on it was performed at one of our Conservatoire concerts and made an unheard-of sensation. Even my faithful hissers dared not uplift their voices. Mesdames Viardot and Vanderheufel-Duprez sang it deliciously, and the marvellous orchestra was dainty and graceful. It was one of those performances one sometimes hears--in dreams. The Conservatoire Society, directed by my friend, Georges Hainl, was no longer inimical to me and proposed to give excerpts from my scores occasionally. I have now presented it with my whole musical library, with the exception of the operas; it ought some day to be fairly valuable and it could not be in better hands.

I must not forget to mention the Strasburg festival, where I conducted my _Childhood of Christ_ in a vast building seating six thousand people. I had five hundred performers, and to my surprise, this work--written almost throughout in a quiet, tender vein--made a tremendous impression, the mystic, unaccompanied chorus, “O my soul!” even causing tears.

Ah! how happy am I when my audience weeps!

I have heard since that many of my works have been given in America, Russia and Germany.