Part 21

“I stay there sometimes four hours at a time. We go long walks beside the lake. Yesterday we took a drive, but I am never alone with her, so can speak only of outward things, and I feel that the oppression of my heart will kill me.

“What can I do? I am unjust, stupid, unreasonable.

“They have all read the _Mémoires_. _She_ reproached me mildly for publishing her letters, but her daughter-in-law said I was quite right, and I believe she was not really vexed.

“Already I dread the moment of departure. It is charming country, and the lake is most beautiful, pure and deep; yet I know something deeper, purer, and yet more beautiful....

“Adieu, dear friends.”

_To_ MADAME MASSART.

“PARIS, _15th September 1865_.--Good afternoon, madame. How are you, and how is Massart?

“I am quite at sea, not finding you here.

“I have come back from Geneva just as ill as I went.

“At first I was better, but after a little the pain came again worse than ever.

“How lucky you are to be free from such trouble! Having a moment’s respite, I use it in writing to you.”

“You will either laugh, saying--or say, laughing, ‘Why write to me?’

“Probably you would rather that this preposterous idea had not entered my head, but there it is, and, if you find it mistimed, you have the remedy in your own hands--not to answer.

“All the same, the inner meaning of my letter is--to extract one from you. If only you could conceive the frightful impetuosity with which one bores oneself in Paris!

“I am alone, more than alone. I hear never a note of music--nothing but gibberish to right of me, gibberish to left of me. When will you be back? When shall I hear you play a sonata again? I often talked of you in Geneva, where I was petted, spoilt--and scolded a little, too.

“When you come back we will gather together our choice spirits, our good men and true, and read _Coriolanus_. I only really _live_ in watching the enthusiasm of fresh sympathetic souls--undeadened by the world.

“I quite enjoyed at Vienne making my nieces cry over it. They are dear girls, impressionable as a photographic plate--which is rather odd, seeing that they have always lived in that most provincial of provinces, among utterly anti-literary people.

“My thick autobiography awaits you, but remember, it is yours only for the time it takes you and Massart to read it. It is very sad, but very true.

“I am quite ashamed that I had not the sense to speak of the many calm, sweet hours I owe to you, and of my deep affection for you both. I have only just noticed that you are not even mentioned.

“Ah, the pain! Madame, forgive me. I can write no more!”

_To_ LOUIS BERLIOZ.

“_13th November 1865._--Dear Boy,--Your letter has just come, and I want to reply before I go back to bed.

“How I suffer! If I could I would fly off to Palermo or to Nice.

“It is horrible weather. I have to light a lamp at half-past three.

“To-night is our Monday dinner, and as I shall have to get up and go to it, I want to snatch a little sleep first.

“I have had no letter from Geneva, but I did not expect one. When one comes my heart lightens and my spirits rise.

“My poor, dear boy. What should I do without you?

“Can you believe that I always loved you, even when you were tiny? I, who find it so difficult to like little children!

“There was always some attraction that drew me to you.

“It weakened when you got to the stupid stage and were a hobbledehoy. Since then it has come back, has increased, and now, as you know, I love you, and my love grows daily.”

_To_ H. FERRAND.

“_17th January 1866._--I am alone in the chimney corner writing to you.

“I was greatly excited this morning by the manager of the Théâtre Lyrique, who has asked me to supervise his intended revival of _Armida_. It will hardly suit his pettifogging world.

“Madame Charton-Demeurs, who undertakes the overpowering rôle of Armida, comes every day to rehearse with M. Saint-Saëns, a great pianist, a great musician, who knows his Gluck almost as well as I do.

“It is curious to see the poor lady floundering blindly in the sublime, and to watch the gradually dawning light.

“This morning, in the Hatred scene, Saint-Saëns and I could only grasp hands in silence--we were breathless!

“Never did human being find such expression! And to think that this masterpiece is vilified, blasphemed, insulted, attacked on all sides, even by those who profess to admire it. It belongs to another world. Why are you not here to enjoy it too!

“Will you believe that since I have taken to music again my pains have departed?

“I get up every day just like other people. But I have quite enough to endure with the actors, and, above all, with the conductor. It is coming out in April.

“Madame Fournier writes that a friend she met in Geneva spoke warmly of _The Trojans_. That is good, but I should have done better if I had written one of Offenbach’s atrocities.

“What will those toads of Parisians say to _Armida_?”

* * * * *

“_8th March 1866._--Dear Humbert,--I am answering you this morning simply to tell you what happened yesterday at a great charity concert--with trebled prices--in the Cirque Napoléon, under Pasdeloup.

“They played the great Septuor from _The Trojans_, Madame Charton sang; there was a chorus of a hundred and fifty, and the usual fine orchestra.

“The whole programme was miserably received except the _Lohengrin_ March, and the overture to the _Prophet_ was so hissed that the police had to turn out the malcontents.

“Then came the Septuor. Endless applause, and an encore.

“The second time it went even better. The audience spied me on my three-franc bench (they had not honoured me with a ticket). There were more calls, shouts, waving of hats and handkerchiefs.

“‘_Vive Berlioz!_’ they cried. ‘Get up; we want to see you.’

“I, the while, trying to hide myself!

“Coming out, a crowd surrounded me on the boulevard. This morning many callers, and a charming letter from Legouvé’s daughter.

“Liszt was there. I saw him from my perch. He has just come from Rome. Why were you not there too?

“There were at least three thousand people. Once I should have been pleased....

“The effect was grand, particularly the sound of the sea (impossible to give on the piano) at the passage:

‘And the sleeping sea Whispers in dreams her sweet deep chords.’

“It touched me profoundly.

“My gallery neighbours, hearing that I was the author of it, pressed my hands and thanked me.

“Why were you not there?”

* * * * *

“_9th March._--Just a word added to what I wrote yesterday.

“A few amateurs have written me a round-robin of congratulation. The letter is a slightly altered copy of that which I wrote to Spontini twenty-two years ago about his _Fernando Cortez_.

“Is it not a pretty idea to apply to me what I said to him so long ago?”

_To_ MADAME MASSART.

“_3rd September 1866._--Such a misfortune, dear madame! This morning--yes, really only this morning--I composed the most clever and complimentary letter to you--a master-piece of delicate, dainty flattery. Then I went to sleep and--when I awoke it was all gone, and I am reduced to mere commonplaces.

“I will not speak of the boredom you must be suffering in your little card-board bandbox by the sea, lest I should drive you to commit suicide--by no means a suitable way out of the difficulty for a pretty woman!

“Yet, what on earth _are_ you to do?

“You have gone the round of Beethoven over and over again; you have read Homer; you know some of Shakespeare’s best works; you see the sea every day; you have friends and a husband who worships you.

“Great heavens, what _is_ to become of you?

“I do my best to make your sea-side life bearable by not coming near you. Can I do more?

“I ought to be at Geneva, but a cousin of mine is going to be married next week and wants me to be one of his witnesses.

“Could I refuse? One ought to help relations out of difficulties!

“Perrin also wishes me to superintend the rehearsals of _Alcestis_, but he dawdles so, waiting for Society to come back to Paris (as if there were Society for _Alcestis_!), that I am going to leave him stranded and start for Geneva.

“Ah! dear lady, how glorious it is! how grand! The other day at rehearsal we all wept like stags at bay.

“‘What a man Gluck was!’ cried Perrin.

“‘No,’ said I, ‘_we_ are the men. Don’t get confused.’

“Taylor said yesterday that Gluck had more heart than Homer; truly, he is more thoroughly human.

“And we are going to offer this food for the gods to pure idiots!

“Is Massart shooting, fishing, painting, building, dreaming?

“He has covered himself with glory. His pupils have carried off all the prizes this year; he can wallow in laurels, though he certainly might find a more comfortable bed!

“Here ends my scribble; I press your learned hand.”

_To_ HUMBERT FERRAND.

“_10th November 1866._--Dear Humbert,--I ought to be in Vienna, but the concert is put off. I suppose that _Faust_ was not learnt to their satisfaction, and they only wish me to hear it when it is nearly ready.

“It will be a real joy to listen to it again; I have not heard the whole of it since it was performed twelve years ago in Dresden.

“The _Alcestis_ rehearsals have done me good; never did it appear so grand, and surely never before was it so finely rendered.

“A whole new generation has arisen to worship.

“The other day a lady near me sobbed so violently that every one around noticed her, and I got crowds of letters thanking me for my devoted care for Gluck.

“Ingres is not the only one of our Institute colleagues who comes constantly; most of the painters and sculptors love the beautiful Antique, of which the very sorrow is not disfiguring.

“I am sending you the pocket-score; you will easily read it and I am sure will enjoy it.”

_To_ M. ERNEST REYER.

“VIENNA, _17th December 1866_.--Dear Reyer,--I only got up at four to-day, as yesterday over-did me.

“It would be foolish of me to describe the recalls, encores, tears, and flowers I received after the performance of _Faust_ in the _Salle de la Redoute_; I had a chorus of three hundred, an orchestra of a hundred and fifty, and splendid soloists.

“This evening there is to be a grand fête; three hundred artists and amateurs--among them the hundred and fifty lady-amateurs who, with their sweet fresh voices, sang my choruses.

“How well, too, they had been trained by Herbeck, who first thought of giving my work in its entirety, and who would let himself be chopped in pieces for me.

“To-morrow I am invited by the Conservatoire to hear Helmesberger conduct my _Harold_.

“This has been the most perfect musical joy of my life, so forgive me if I say too much!

“Well! this is one score saved at any rate. They can play it now in Vienna under Herbeck, who knows it by heart.

“The Paris Conservatoire may leave me in outer darkness and stick to its antiquated repertoire if it likes.

“You have drawn down this tirade on your own head by asking me to write!

“Good-bye; I have been invited to Breslau to conduct _Romeo and Juliet_, but I must get back to Paris before the end of the month.”

_To_ HUMBERT FERRAND.

“PARIS, _11th January 1867_.--It is midnight, dear friend. I write in bed, as usual; you will read my letter in bed--also as usual.

“Your last letter hurt me; I read the suffering between the lines. I wanted to reply at once, but my tortures, medical stupidity, doses of laudanum (all useless and productive only of evil dreams), prevented me.

“I see now how difficult it will be for us to meet. You cannot stir, and for three quarters of the year I cannot either. What are we to do?

“My journey to Vienna nearly made an end of me--even the warmth of their enthusiasm could not protect me from the rigours of their winter. This awful climate will be the death of me.

“Dear Louis writes of his morning rides in the forests of Martinique, and describes the lovely tropical vegetation--the real hot sun. That is what you and I both need.

“Dear friend, the dull rumbling of passing carriages breaks the silence of the night. Paris is damp, cold, and muddy--Parisian Paris!

“Now all is still; it sleeps the sleep of the unrighteous.

“Have you the full score of my _Mass for the Dead_? If I were threatened with the destruction of all that I have ever written, it would be for that Mass that I should beg life.

“Good-bye; I shall lie awake and think of you.”

_To_ FERDINAND HILLER.

“PARIS, _8th February 1867_.--Dear Hiller,--You are the best of good friends!

“I will do as you bid me; take my courage in both hands, and on the 23rd start for Cologne.

“I shall be at the Hotel Royal by evening, but do not engage _rooms_ for me, one tiny one is enough.

“If I cannot possibly travel, I will send on the orchestral score of the duet from _Beatrice_. It is very effective and not difficult--almost any singers could manage it, provided they were not geese.

“To be sure, we both have an intimate acquaintance with these winged fowl!

“You talk like the doctors. ‘It is neuralgia.’

“That is just like Madame Sand and her gardener.

“She told him the garden wall had tumbled down.

“‘Oh, it is nothing, madame, the frost did it.’

“‘Yes, but it must be rebuilt.’

“‘It’s only the frost, that’s all.’

“‘I do not say it is not the frost, but there it is on the ground.’

“‘Don’t worry about it, madame, the frost did it.’

“I can write no more. I must go to bed.”

_To_ H. FERRAND.

“_11th June 1867._--Thanks for your letter, dear friend, it did me good.

“Yes, I am in Paris, but so ill I can hardly write. Besides, I am worried about Louis, who is in Mexico, and I do not know what those Mexican ruffians may not be up to.

“The Exhibition is turning Paris into an Inferno. I have not been there yet, for I can hardly walk.

“Yesterday there was a great function at Court, but I was too weak to dress and go to it....

“I wrote so far at the Conservatoire, where I was one of the jury in awarding the Exhibition musical prize. We heard a hundred and four cantatas, and I had the very great pleasure of seeing the prize unanimously awarded to my young friend, Camille Saint-Saëns, one of the greatest musicians of our time.

“I have been urgently pressed to go to New York where, say the Americans, I am popular. They played _Harold_ five times last year with success truly _Viennese_.

“I am quite elated with our jury meeting. How happy Saint-Saëns will be! I hurried off to tell him, but he was out with his mother.

“He is an astounding pianist.

“Well! at last our musical world has done something sensible; it makes me feel quite strong, I could not have written you such a long letter were it not for my joy.”

XXXVIII

DARKNESS AND LIGHT

_To_ H. FERRAND.

“_30th June 1867._--A terrible grief has fallen upon me. My poor boy, at thirty-three captain of a fine vessel, has just died at Havana.”

* * * * *

“_15th July 1867._--Just a few words, since you ask for them; but it is wrong of me to sadden you too.

“I am so much worse that I am really hardly alive and have barely sense enough to grasp poor Louis’ business affairs; fortunately one of his friends is helping me. Thanks for your letter; forgive my stupidity. I am fit for nothing but sleep.

“Adieu, adieu!”

_To_ MADAME DAMCKE at Montreux.

“PARIS, _24th September 1867_.--Dear Madame Damcke,--I should have written sooner had I known your address, therefore double thanks for your letter.

“My answer is short; I am as ill as usual.

“After my fifth bath at Néris the doctor, hearing me speak, felt my pulse and cried:

“‘Be off out of this as fast as you can; the waters are the worst possible for you, you are on the verge of laryngitis. Confound it all, it is really serious.’

“So off I went the same evening and was nearly choked by a fit of coughing in the train.

“My nieces at Vienne nursed me devotedly but, when my throat got better, back came my neuralgia more fiendishly than ever.

“I stayed long enough to see my elder niece married. Thirty-three relations came from all parts to the wedding--but _one_, alas! was missing.

“The one I most rejoiced to see was my old uncle, the colonel. He is eighty-four. We both wept on meeting; he seemed almost ashamed of still being alive--how much more, then, should I!

“I spend most of my time in bed, but the Grand Duchess Helen is coaxing me to get up and go to St Petersburg. She wishes to see me and I have agreed to go on the 15th November and conduct six concerts. Best wishes to you both.”

_To_ M. AND MME MASSART.

“PARIS, _4th October 1867_.--Yes, it is quite true. I am going to Russia. The Grand Duchess Helen was here the other day and made me such generous proposals that, after some hesitation, I accepted. I am to conduct six Conservatoire concerts; five of the grandest works of the great masters and the sixth entirely of my own compositions.

“I am to have rooms in her palace and the use of one of her carriages; she pays all my travelling expenses and gives me fifteen thousand francs.

“I shall be tired to death--ill as I am already. Will you not come too? You should play your jovial Bach concerto in D minor and we would enjoy ourselves.

“Three days ago an American,[33] hearing that I had accepted the Russian engagement, came and offered me a hundred thousand francs to go to New York next year. What do you think of that? Meanwhile, he has had a bronze bust of me cast, to place in a splendid hall that he has built over there.

“If I were younger it would please me greatly.

“My mother-in-law thanks you for your kind messages. Are you not ashamed of slaughtering pheasants? It is a noble thing, forsooth, to go out into the poultry yard and kill off the chickens!!! Despite all, my friendship holds good, faithful and warm. Each day I appreciate more thoroughly your loving hearts.”

_To the Same._

“PARIS, _2nd November 1867_.--How are you, my lord and my lady?

“How is your house?

“Have you forgotten your French?

“Have you forgotten your music?

“Have you forgotten how to write?

“Have you forgotten that you hear of nothing?

“Have you forgotten that we have forgotten you?

“Can you believe that we get on perfectly well without you?

“Can you believe that you are....

“Out of fashion?

“Good-night.”

* * * * *

“_2nd November._--Day of the dead, and, when one is dead, one is dead for a long, long time.”

_To_ H. FERRAND.[34]

“_22nd October 1867._--Dear Humbert,--Here is the letter you asked me to return. Only a line to-day as I took laudanum last night and have not had time yet to sleep it off. I had to get up this morning to do some necessary business.

“So now back to bed. A thousand greetings.”

_To_ M. EDOUARD ALEXANDRE.

“ST PETERSBURG, _15th December 1867_.--Dear friends,--How kind of you to send me your news; it seems neglectful of me not to have done the same ere this.

“I am loaded with favour by everyone--from the Grand Duchess down to the least member of the orchestra.

“They found out that the 11th was my birthday and sent me delightful presents. In the evening I was asked to a banquet of a hundred and fifty guests where, as you may imagine, I was well toasted. Both public and press are most eulogistic. At the second concert I was recalled six times after the _Symphonie Fantastique_, which was executed with tremendous spirit and the last part of which was encored.

“What an orchestra! what _ensemble_! what precision! I wonder if Beethoven ever heard anything like it. In spite of my pain, as soon as I reach the conductor’s desk and am surrounded by these sympathetic souls, I revive and I believe am conducting now as I never did before.

“Yesterday we did the second act of _Orfeo_, the _C. minor Symphony_ and my _Carnaval Romain_. All was grandly done. The girl who sang Orfeo in Russian had an unequalled voice and sang well too.

“These poor Russians only knew Gluck from mutilated fragments, so you may imagine my pleasure in drawing aside the curtain that hid his mighty genius.

“In a fortnight we are to do the first act of _Alcestis_. The Grand Duchess has ordered that I am to be implicitly obeyed; I do not abuse her order, but I use it.

“She has asked me to go some day and read her _Hamlet_, and the other day I happened to speak to her ladies-in-waiting, in her presence, of Saint-Victor’s book and now they are all rushing off to buy and admire _Hommes et Dieux_.

“Here they love the beautiful; they live for literature and music; they have within them a constant flame that makes them lose consciousness of the frost and the snow.

“Why am I so old, so worn-out?

“Good-bye all. I love you and press your hands.”

_To_ M. AND MME MASSART.

“ST PETERSBURG, _22/10 December 1867_.--Dear Madame Massart,--I am ill with eighteen horse power; I cough like six donkeys with the glanders; yet, before I retire to bed, I want to write to you.

“All goes well here.

“At the fifth concert I want to give Beethoven’s _Choral Symphony_, at least the first three parts, I am afraid to risk the vocal part as I am not sufficiently sure of my chorus.

“I have been invited to Moscow and the Grand Duchess permits me to go.

“The gentlemen of the semi-Asiatic capital propound the most irresistible arguments _tace_ Wieniawski, who does not wish me to jump at their offer. But I never could haggle and should be ashamed to do so now.

“I have just been interrupted by a message from the Grand Duchess. She has a musical soirée to-night and wishes to hear the duet from _Beatrice_. Her pianist and two singers know it perfectly in French, so I have sent the score, with a message to them not to be nervous as they will get through all right.

“I shall go back to bed. I would tell you a lot more but I am tired out and am not used to being up at such unreasonable hours.

“It is half-past nine. I shall take some laudanum to be sure of sleep.

“You know that you are charming. But why the devil _are_ you so charming? Farewell, I am your

H. B.”

_To the Same._

“_18th January 1868._

“DEAR MADAME MASSART,--I found quite a pile of letters on my return from Moscow, among them one that gave me even greater pleasure than yours; you can guess from whom it came.

“Yours, nevertheless, rejoices me too.

“The Michael Square is noiseless under its snowy mantle; crows, pigeons and sparrows stir not; sledges have ceased to run; there is a great funeral--that of Prince Dolgorouki--at which the Emperor and all the Court were present.

“My programme for Saturday is settled.

“Oh! the joy when I lay down my baton at the end of _Harold_ and say:

“‘In three days I start for Paris.’

“I cannot stand this climate, although I felt better in Moscow. Such enthusiasm there!

“The first concert was in the Riding School and there were ten thousand six hundred people present. And when they applauded the Offertory from my _Requiem_, with its two-note chorus, I must own that the uncommon religious feeling shown by that mighty crowd, went to my heart.

“Do not speak of a concert in Paris.