Part 20

“PARIS, _2nd October 1864_.

“MADAME,--I have not answered sooner, hoping that I might overcome the terrible depression caused by your letter--a masterpiece of sad truth.

“You are right to avoid all that might disturb your calm; but be assured that I should never have done so, and that this friendship, for which I so humbly begged, should never have become _burdensome_. (Is not this rather a cruel word?)

“But you will take an interest in my career, and for that I kiss your hand with deepest gratitude. Yet, with tears, with importunity, I pray for news of you sometimes.

“You talk so bravely of old age that I must e’en be brave too. I pray I may die first that I may send you my last farewell! But if I must hear that you have left this sad earth ... will your son tell it me?--pardon!

“Give me, at least, what you would give to the merest stranger--your address at Geneva.

“I will not go there for a year, I fear to trouble you; but your address! your address! If your silence shows that you refuse even this meagre concession, you will have put a crown on the unhappiness you might have softened.

“Then, madame, may God and your conscience forgive you!

“Lost in the cold dark night wherein you have thrust me, I shall wander--grieving, suffering, alone, but still,--Yours devotedly until death,

HECTOR BERLIOZ.”

MADAME F.’S _Second Letter_.

“LYONS, _14th October 1864_.

“MONSIEUR,--I write in haste, that you may believe I have no wish to be unkind. My son is to be married on the 19th, and I shall have much to do.

“Immediately afterwards I must prepare to go to Geneva--no light task for my weak health. Early in November I leave, and, as soon as I am settled in my new home, you shall have my address, which I do not yet know.

“I would have waited to get it from my son, but I feared to pain you by my long silence.”

_Third Letter._

“_15th October 1864._

“MADAME,--Oh, thank you! thank you! I will wait.

“My best wishes for the young couple and for you!

“Dear lady, may this solemn time bring you ineffable joy.

“Ah, how good you are!

“Do not fear that my adoration will become unreasonable.--Your devoted

HECTOR BERLIOZ.”

After an impatient fortnight, I received the announcement of M. Charles F.’s marriage, addressed in his mother’s writing; which filled me with a joy that few can understand. I was in the seventh heaven, and wrote at once:--

“_28th October 1864._--Life is beautiful under certain aspects. I have received the notice addressed by you! A thought for the poor exile. May your good angel render fourfold the good you have done! Yes, life is beautiful, but how much more beautiful death. To be at your feet, my head upon your knee, your two hands clasped in mine, and so to end----

HECTOR BERLIOZ.”

Days passed into weeks; Madame F. had gone to Geneva. Could she intend to withhold her address? To break her word?

During that anxious time I believed I should write to her no more, and my heart despaired.

But one morning, as I sat drearily musing beside the fire, a card was brought to me:--

“M. ET MME CHARLES F----.”

The son and his wife, and _she_ had sent them!

Yet how greatly it upset me to find the young man the living image of his mother at eighteen.

The bride seemed quite bewildered at my emotion, although her husband was not; evidently he knew all; Madame F. had shown my letters.

“How beautiful she must have been!” cried the young wife.

“Oh!----”

“Yes,” said M. F., “I remember even now how dazzled I was, at five years old, on seeing my mother dressed for a ball.”

Gradually I subdued my feelings, and was able to talk sensibly to my visitors. Madame C. F. was a Dutch creole of Java, and knew Rajah Brooke of Sarawak.

How much I should have had to ask her had I been in my usual state of mind.

I saw them pleasantly often during their stay in Paris, and we talked of _her_. As we grew more friendly, the bride scolded me for writing as I had done.

“You frighten her,” she said. “Remember she hardly knows you. You must learn to be calm, then your visits to Geneva will be delightful, and we shall be so happy to see you. You will come, will you not?”

“Can you doubt it, if Madame F. gives me permission?”

Schooling myself rigidly, I gave them no letter for their mother when they left; but, as my _Trojans_ was to be given, I sent her a copy of the poem, begging her to read the page I had marked with some dead leaves at half-past two on the 18th December, the time at which that passage would be played in Paris. Madame C. F. was to be back in Paris then, and hoped to be present at this concert, which was making some stir in the musical world.

A fortnight went by and she did not come, neither did I have a letter. I was almost at the end of my patience, although I would not write, when, on the 17th, Madame C. F. returned bringing me the following letter:

“GENEVA, _16th December 1864_.

“MONSIEUR,--I ought to have thanked you sooner for your charming welcome of my son and his wife had I not been unwell, and consequently, very idle.

“But I cannot let my daughter-in-law go without my grateful thanks for all the pleasure you have given them.

“Suzanne will tell you all about our life here; I should be as happy as in Lyons, were it not for my separation from my other two sons and from my dear old friends.

“Once more, thank you for the libretto of _The Trojans_, and also for the sweet souvenir of the Meylan leaves--they bring back the bright, happy days of my youth.

“My son and I will read the part of your work that you have marked, and shall think of Suzanne listening to your music on Sunday.”

To which I replied:

“PARIS, _19th December 1864_.--Last September, when at Grenoble, I visited one of my cousins, who lives near St Georges, a wretched hamlet niched into the most barren mountains on the left bank of the Drac, inhabited only by a few miserable peasants.

“My cousin’s sister-in-law is the sweet providence of this forsaken corner, and on the day of my arrival she heard that one far-away family had had no bread for three weeks.

“She started off at once to see the mother.

“‘Why, Jeanne!’ she cried, ‘how could you be in trouble and not tell me? You know how anxious we are to help.’

“‘Oh, mademoiselle, we are not really in want yet; we still have some potatoes and a few cabbages, only the children don’t like them. They shout and cry for bread. You know children are so unreasonable.’

“Well, dear lady, you too have done a kind thing in writing. I would not write for fear of boring you, so waited for your daughter’s return. She came not! My anxiety choked me. You see, madame, creatures such as I are _unreasonable_.

“Yet surely I--if anyone--hardly need to learn lessons that have been taught me already by so many knife-thrusts in my heart.

“It seems to me that you are sad, and that makes me the more.... From to-day I mean to restrain my language, to talk of outward things only.

“You know what is in my heart--all that I do not say.

“Perhaps you already know that, thanks to the thousand and one annoyances brought upon me by the Conservatoire committee, my _Trojans_ was not performed yesterday. Still, I thank you for the time you have spent in thought with us in the concert-room. My son, who has done well in Mexico, has just landed at St Nazaire. He is first lieutenant of his ship, and, as he cannot come to Paris, I am going to Brittany to see him. He is a good boy, but is, unfortunately, too much like his father, and cannot reconcile himself to the commonplaces and troubles of this world.

“We love each other dearly.

“My aged mother-in-law, whom I have promised never to leave, takes the greatest care of me, and accepts unquestioningly my gloomy tempers. I read again and again Shakespeare, Virgil, Homer, _Paul and Virginia_, and travels of all kinds. I am horribly bored and suffer agonies from neuralgia that doctors have tried in vain, for nine years, to cure.

“When the pains of mind, body and estate grow too much for me, I take three drops of laudanum to snatch some sleep.

“If I feel better I go and see my friends, M. and Mme Damcke.

“He is a German composer of rare gifts; his wife is an angel of goodness to me.

“There I do as I like. If I am in the humour we talk or play; if not, they draw up a big sofa to the fire, and there I lie the whole evening without a word--chewing the cud of sweet and bitter fancies. This, madame, is all.

“You know that I neither write nor compose, for the present state of art in Paris makes me both sick and sorry--which proves that I am not dead yet!

“I hope to have the honour of escorting Madame C. F. and a Russian friend of hers to the Théâtre Italien to hear Donizetti’s _Poliuto_.

“Madame Charton will give me a box.

“Good-bye, madame. May your thoughts be blest, your heart at rest, and your life serene in the assured love of your children and friends. But send a thought sometimes to the _poor child who is unreasonable_.--Your devoted

H. B.”

“_P.S._--It was good of you to send the bride and bridegroom to see me. I was so struck with the likeness of M. Charles to Mademoiselle Estelle that, although such compliments are out of place to a man, I so far forgot myself as to tell him so.”

Some time later she wrote:

“Believe me, I am not without sympathy for _unreasonable children_. I have always found the best way to quiet them is to give them pictures to look at.

“I therefore take the liberty of sending you one that I hope, by bringing home the reality of the present, will wipe out the illusion of the past.”

She sent me her portrait! My dear lady!

And here I stop.

Now I can live calmly. I shall write, she will reply. I shall see her, shall know where she is, and shall never again be without news of her.

Perhaps, in spite of her dread of new ties, her affection for me may grow slowly and quietly. Already life seems more possible, since the past is not irretrievably over and done with.

No longer is my heaven overcast. My sweet bright star smiles upon me from afar. She does not love me, truly, but why should she? She knows, however, that I love her.

I must find consolation in the thought that she knew me too late, just as I comfort myself for not having known Virgil, Gluck, Beethoven or Shakespeare--who might, perhaps, have loved me too.

(All the same, I am not comforted in the very least!)

* * * * *

Which power raises man the higher? Love or Music? It is a great question. It seems to me that one might say this: “Love cannot give an idea of music, but music can give an idea of love--why separate them?”

They are the twin wings of the soul.

* * * * *

Seeing the conception some people have of Love, and what they look for in Art, makes me liken them to swine rooting in a bed of lovely flowers and among mighty oaks, hoping to turn up with their snouts the truffles for which they are greedy.

I will think no more of Art.... Stella! Stella! I can die now without bitterness or anger.

* * * * *

_1st January 1865._

* * * * *

[This is the end of Berlioz’ own Memoir. The rest of his life must be gathered from the few remaining letters to his intimate friends and from M. Bernard’s short account of his last days.]

XXXVII

THE AFTERGLOW

_To_ HUMBERT FERRAND.

“PARIS, _28th October 1864_.--Dear Humbert,--On returning from my visit to Dauphiny I found your sad letter. You must have had difficulty in writing, yet your young friend, M. Bernard, tells me you are able to go out sometimes, leaning on a friendly arm.

“When first I went into the country my neuralgia was better, but very soon it came back worse than ever, from eight in the morning till four in the afternoon.

“Then, oh! my weariness and troubles of all sorts!

“Nevertheless, there are compensations. Louis is doing well, though our long partings are hard to bear, for we love each other dearly.

“As for the musical world, the corruption in Paris is beyond belief, and I retire more and more into my shell.

“_Beatrice_ is to be performed in Stuttgart, and I may go to conduct it. I am also asked to go to St Petersburg in March, but shall not do so unless they offer me a sum tempting enough to make me brave that horrible climate. Then I shall do it for Louis’ sake, for of what use are a few thousand francs more to me?

“I cannot imagine why some people have taken to flattering me so grossly. Their compliments are enough to scrape the paint off the walls, and I long to say to them:

“‘Monsieur, you forget that I am no longer a critic. I write no more for the papers.’

“The monotony of my life has been broken lately.

“Madame Erard, Madame Spontini and their niece begged me to read _Othello_ to them. The door was rigorously closed to all comers, and I read the masterpiece through from beginning to end to my audience of six, who wept gloriously.

“Great heaven! What a revelation of the deepest depths of the human heart! That angel Desdemona, that noble fate-haunted Othello, that devil incarnate Iago! And to think that it was all written by a being like unto ourselves!

“It needs long, close study to put oneself in the point of view of the author, to follow the magnificent sweep of his mighty wings. And translators are such donkeys.

“Laroche is the best--most exact, least ignorant--yet I have to correct ever so many mistakes in my copy.

“Liszt has been here for a week, and we dined together twice.

“As we kept carefully off things musical we had a pleasant time. He has gone back to Rome to play the _Music of the Future_ to the Pope, who asks himself what on earth it all means.”

* * * * *

“_10th November 1864._--Can you believe, dear Humbert, that I have a grudge against the past? Why did I not know Virgil.

“I see him dreaming in his Sicilian villa--so hospitable, so gracious.

“And Shakespeare, that mighty Sphinx, impassible as a mirror, reflecting not creating. Yet what ineffable compassion must he not have had for poor, small, human things?

“And Beethoven, rough and scornful, yet blessed with such exquisite tenderness and delicacy that I think I could have forgiven him all his contempt, his rudeness, everything!

“And Gluck, the stately!...

“Last week M. Blanche, the doctor of the Passy lunatic asylum, invited a party of artists and _savants_ to celebrate the anniversary of the performance of _The Trojans_.

“I was invited and kept entirely in the dark.

“Gounod was there. In his sweet, weak voice, but with the most perfect expression, he sang ‘_O nuit d’ivresse_’ with Madame Bauderali; then, alone, the song of Hylos.

“A young lady played the dances, and they made me recite without music Dido’s scena, ‘_Va, ma sœur_.’

“It had a fine effect. They all knew my score by heart. I longed to have you there.”

* * * * *

“PARIS, _23rd December 1864_.--I have just sent you a copy of _La Nation_, with two columns by Gasperini about _The Trojans_ business at the Conservatoire. I did not know of that letter of Gluck. Where the devil did you get it? That is always the way. Beethoven was even more insulted than Gluck. Weber and Spontini share the honour.

“Only people like M. de Flotow, author of _Martha_, have panegyrists. His dull opera is sung in all languages, all theatres.

“I went to hear that delicious little Patti sing _Martha_ the other day; when I came out I felt creepy all over, just as if I had come out of a fowlhouse--with consequences!

“I told the little prodigy of a girl that I would _forgive_ her for making me listen to platitudes--that was the utmost I could do!

“But that exquisite Irish air, ‘The Last Rose of Summer,’ is introduced, and she sings it with such poetic simplicity that its perfume is almost enough to disinfect the rest of the score.

“I will send Louis your congratulations; he will be very pleased. He has read your letters and thinks me fortunate in having such a friend as you. Good-bye.”

_To_ MADAME ERNST.

“PARIS, _14th December 1864_.--You are really too good to have written to me, dear Madame Ernst, and I ought to reply in a sleek, smooth style, mouth nicely buttoned up, cravat well tied, myself all smiles and amiability. Well, I can’t!

“I am ill, miserable, disgusted, bored, idiotic, wearisome, cross, and altogether impossible. It is one of those days when I am in the sort of temper that I wish the earth were a charged bomb, that I might light the fuse for fun.

“The account of your Nice pleasures does not amuse me in the least.

“I should love to see you and your dear invalid, but I could not accept your offer of a room. I would rather live in the cave under the Ponchettes.

“There I could growl comfortably alongside Caliban (I know he lives there, I saw him one day), and the sea does not often come into it; whereas with friends, there are all sorts of unbearable attentions.

“They ask how you pass the night, but not how your _ennui_ is getting on;[31] they laugh when you say silly things; are always mutely trying to find out whether you are sad or gay; they talk to you when you are only soliloquising, and then the husband says to the wife, ‘Do let him alone, don’t bother him,’ etc., etc. Then you feel a brute and go out, banging the door and feeling you have laid the train of a domestic quarrel.

“Now in Caliban’s grotto there is none of this.

“Well, never mind!

“You stroll on the terrace and along the shady walks? And then?

“You admire the sunsets? And then?

“You watch the tunny fishers? And then?

“You envy young English heiresses? And then?

“You envy still more the idiots without ideas or feelings who understand nothing and love nothing? And then?...

“Why, bless you, I can give you all that!

“We have terraces and trees in Paris. There are sunsets, English heiresses, idiots (they are even more plentiful than at Nice for the population is larger), and gudgeon to be caught with a line. One can be quite as extensively bored as at Nice. It is the same thing everywhere.

“Yesterday I had a delightful letter from some unknown man about _The Trojans_. He tells me that the Parisians are used to more _indulgent_ music than mine.

“Is not that an admirable epithet?

“The Viennese telegraph that they celebrated my birthday by giving _Faust_, and that the double chorus was an immense success. I did not even know I had a birthday!”

_To_ H. FERRAND.

“PARIS, _8th February 1864_.

“DEAR HUMBERT,--It is six in the evening, and I have only just got up, for I took laudanum yesterday and am quite stupefied. What a life! I would bet a good deal that you too are worse. Nevertheless I mean to go out to-night to hear Beethoven’s Septuor; I want it to warm my blood, and my favourite artists are playing it.

“The day after to-morrow I ought to read _Hamlet_ at Massart’s. Shall I have strength to go through it? It lasts five hours. Of my audience of five only Madame Massart knows anything of the play.

“I feel almost afraid of bringing these artist natures too abruptly face to face with this supreme manifestation of genius. It seems to me like giving sight suddenly to one born blind.

“I believe they will understand it, for I know them well; but to be forty-five or fifty and not know _Hamlet_! One might as well have lived down a coal mine. Shakespeare says:

“Glory is like a circle in the water Which never ceaseth to enlarge itself Till, by wide spreading, it disperse to naught.”

* * * * *

“_26th April 1865._--How can I tell you what is cooking in the musical cauldron of Paris? I have got out of it and hardly ever get in again.

“I went to a general rehearsal of Meyerbeer’s _Africaine_, which lasted from half-past seven to half-past one.

“I don’t think I am likely to go again.

“Joachim, the celebrated German violinist, has been here ten days; he plays nearly every evening at different houses. Thus I heard Beethoven’s piano trio in B♭♯, the sonata in A, and the quartett in E minor--the music of the starry spheres.

“You will quite understand that after this I am in no mood for listening to commonplace productions praised by the Mayor and Town Council.

“If I possibly can, I will see you this summer. I am going to Geneva and Grenoble.

_To_ LOUIS BERLIOZ.

“PARIS, _28th June 1865_.--I hardly know why I am writing, for I have nothing to say. Your letter troubles me greatly. Now you say you _dread_ being captain; you have no confidence in yourself, yet you wish to be appointed.

“You want a home instead of your quiet room; you want to marry--but not an ordinary woman. It is all easy to understand, but you must not shrink from the duties that alone will ensure your gaining your end.

“You are thirty-two, and if you do not realise the responsibility of life now, you never will.

“You need money; I can give you none; I find it difficult to make ends meet as it is. I will leave you what my father left me, perhaps a little more--but I cannot tell you when I shall die.

“In any case it must be ere long.

“So do not speak to me of desires I cannot satisfy.

“I, too, wish I had a fortune. First, that I might share it with you; and next, that I might travel and have my works performed.

“Remember, if you were married you would be a hundred times worse off than you are now. Take warning from me.

“Only a series of miracles--Paganini’s gift, my tour in Russia, etc., saved me from the most ghastly privations.

“Miracles are rare, else were they not miracles.

“Your letter has no ending. I feel as if you had suddenly realised the meaning of the world, society, pleasure, and pain.

* * * * *

“_14th July 1865._--Yes, dear Louis, let us chat whenever we can. Your letter was most welcome, for yesterday life was hideous.

“I went out and wandered up and down the Boulevards des Italiens and des Capucines, until at half-past eight I felt hungry.

“I went into the Café Cardinal, and there found Balfe, the Irish composer, who asked me to dinner.

“Afterwards we went to the Grand Hotel, where he is staying, and I smoked an excellent cigar--which, all the same, made me ill this morning.

“We talked and talked of Shakespeare, whom he says he has only really understood during the last ten or twelve years.

“I never read the papers, so tell me where you saw those nice things you quote about me.

“Do you know that Liszt has become an abbé?

“You shall have a stitched copy of my _Mémoires_ as soon as I get one, but I must have your solemn promise not to let it out of your own hands, and to return it when you have read it.”

_To_ M. AND MME DAMCKE.[32]

“HÔTEL DE LA MÉTROPOLE, GENEVA, _22nd August 1865_.--Dear Friends,--I only write lest you should think yourselves forgotten. You know I do not easily forget, and, if I did, I could never lose remembrance of such friends as you.

“I am strangely and indescribably agitated here.

“Sometimes quite calm, at others full of uneasiness--even pain. I was most cordially welcomed. They like me to be with them, and chide me when I keep away.