Chapter VI: Part 6

He followed M. Bertin into the next room, and I, through the open door, heard him say that “Cherubini took it so to heart that he was ill in bed, and he (Halévy) had come to beg M. Bertin to use his influence in getting him the consolation of the Legion of Honour.”

M. Berlin’s cold voice broke in:

“Certainly, my dear Halévy, we will do our best to get Cherubini such a well-merited distinction. But as far as the Requiem is concerned, if Berlioz gives way one jot, _I will never speak to him again_.”

So much for that failure. Next came a blacker plot.

General Bernard agreed that I should have a free hand, and rehearsals had already begun when M. X. sent for me again. This time it was:

“Habeneck has always conducted our great official performances, and I know he would be terribly hurt at being left out of this. Are you on good terms with him?”

“Why, no. We have quarrelled, goodness only knows why--I don’t! He has not spoken to me for three years. I never troubled to find out the reason, but he began by refusing to conduct one of my concerts. Still, if he wishes to conduct this one, he may, but I reserve the right of conducting one rehearsal.”

On the great day princes, ministers, peers, deputies, the press--home and foreign--and a mighty crowd gathered in the Invalides. It was most important that I should have a real success, failure would have crushed me irretrievably.

My performers were rather curiously arranged. To get the right effect in the _Tuba mirum_, the four brass bands were placed one at each corner of the enormous body of instrumentalists and choristers. As they join in, the _tempo_ doubles, and it is, of course, of the utmost importance that the time should be absolutely clearly indicated. Otherwise, my Titanic cataclysm--prepared with so much thought and care by means of original and hitherto unknown combinations of instruments to represent the Last Judgment--becomes merely a hideous pandemonium.

Suspicious as usual, I took care to be close to Habeneck--in fact, back to back with him--keeping an eye on the group of kettledrums (which he could not see) as the critical moment drew near.

There are about a thousand bars in my Requiem; will it be believed that at this--the most important of all--Habeneck _calmly laid down his baton and, with the utmost deliberation, took a pinch of snuff_.

But my eye was upon him; turning on my heel, in a flash I stretched out my arm and marked the four mighty beats. The executants followed me, all went right, and my long-dreamed-of effect was a magnificent triumph.

“Dear me,” bleated Habeneck, “I was quite in a perspiration; without you we should have been done for.”

“Yes, we should,” I answered, eyeing him steadily.

Could it be that this man, in conjunction with M. X. and Cherubini, planned this dastardly stroke?

I do not like to think so, yet I have not the slightest doubt. God forgive me if I wrong them.

The Requiem had succeeded, but then began the usual sordid trouble about payment.

General Bernard, a thoroughly honourable man, had promised me ten thousand francs for the performance as soon as I brought from the Minister of the Interior a promise to pay the sum ordered by the late Minister--M. de Gasparin--and also that due to the copyists and choristers.

But do you think I could get this letter? It was written out ready for his signature, and from ten to four I waited in his ante-room. At last he emerged and, being button-holed by his secretary, scrawled his name to the precious document, and without a moment’s loss of time I hurried off to General Bernard, who promptly handed me the ten thousand francs, which I spent entirely in paying the performers.

Of course I thought the Minister’s three thousand would soon follow.

_Sancta simplicitas!_ Will it be credited that only by making most unpleasant, almost scandalous, scenes could I, at the end of _eight months_, get that money?

Later on, when my good friend, M. de Gasparin, again came into office, he tried to make up for my mortification by giving me the Legion of Honour. But by that time I was past caring for such a commonplace distinction.

Duponchel, manager of the Opera and Bordogni, the singing-master, got it at the same time.

When the Requiem was printed, I dedicated it to M. de Gasparin, all the more willingly that he was not then in power.

What added greatly to the humour of the situation was that the opposition newspapers dubbed me a “Government parasite,” and said I had been paid thirty thousand francs. They only added a nought.

Thus is history written.

Ere long Cherubini played me another charming trick.

A professorship of Harmony was vacant at the Conservatoire, for which I applied. Cherubini sent for me, and, in his most honeyed voice, said:

“Is it zat you present yourself for ze ’armonee?”

“Yes, monsieur.”

“Zen you vill get it. You ’ave a reputation, influence----”

“Since I asked for it because I want it, I am glad, monsieur.”

“Yes, but zat is vhere I am bothair; I vill zat anozzer get it.”

“Then, monsieur, I withdraw.”

“No, no! I vill not ’ave zat, because you see zey will say I am ze cause zat you vizdraw.”

“Then I won’t withdraw.”

“But--but--zen you vill get ze place--and I did not vish it for you.”

“Then what am I to do?”

“You know zat you must be pianist, for teach ze ’armonee at Conservatoire, my tear fallow.”

“Ah, I never thought of that. That is a capital excuse. You want me to say that, not being a pianist, I withdraw?”

“Just so! just so, my tear fallow! But _I_ am not ze excuse zat you vizdraw----”

“Certainly not, monsieur; it was stupid of me to forget that only pianists could teach Harmony.”

“Yes, my tear boy; embrace me, for I lof you much.”

A week after he gave the place to Bienaimé, who played the piano as well as I do!

Now I call that a thoroughly well-planned trick, and I was among the first to laugh at it.

Soon after, I seriously hurt the feelings of the friend who “lofed me much.”

It was at the first performance of his _Ali Baba_, about the emptiest, feeblest thing he ever wrote. Near the end of the first act, tired of hearing nothing striking, I called out:

“Twenty francs for an idea!”

In the middle of the second I raised my bid.

“Forty francs for an idea!”

The finale commenced.

“Eighty francs for an idea!”

The finale ended and I took myself off, remarking:

“By Jove! I give it up. I’m not rich enough!”

Of course indignant friends of Cherubini told him of my insolence and, considering how he “lofed” me, he must have thought me an ungrateful wretch.

I had better explain here how I got on to the staff of the _Débats_. One day, being utterly wretched and not knowing where to turn for money, I wrote an extravagantly amusing tale called “Rubini at Calais.” These contrasts happen sometimes.

A few days after it came out in the _Gazette Musicale_, the _Journal des Débats_ reproduced it, with a few words of cordial appreciation from the editor.

I went to thank M. Bertin, who offered me the proud post of musical editor. This enabled me to throw up my least well-paid work; yet, all the same, I abominate criticism, and feel quite ill from the moment I see the advertisement of a new performance until I have written my article on it. The ever-recurring task poisons my life. I hate circumlocution, diplomacy, trimming, and all half-measures and concessions. They are so much gall and wormwood to me.

People call me passionate, rude, spiteful, prejudiced. O scrubby louts! If you but knew all I _want_ to write of you, you would find your present bed of nettles a couch of roses compared to the gridiron on which I long to toast you!

At least I can truly say that never have I grudged the fullest, most heartfelt praise to all that aims at the good and true and beautiful--even when it emanates from my bitterest foes.

One day Armand Bertin, who was grieved at my narrow circumstances, told me he had heard that I was to be appointed professor of composition at the Conservatoire, in spite of Cherubini. M. X., whom I met at the Opera, confirmed it, and I begged him to tender my thanks to the Minister for a position that would be to me assured comfort.

That was the last I heard of it.

Still I got something--the post of librarian, which I still hold and which brings me in 118 francs a month.

While I was in England,[14] several worthy patriots tried to eject me, and it was only the kind intervention of Victor Hugo--who had some authority in the Chamber--that saved it for me. Another good friend of mine was M. Charles Blanc, who became Director of Fine Arts, and frequently helped me with a ready warmth I shall never forget.

XXIV

FRIENDS IN NEED

And now for my opera and its deadly failure.

The strange career of Benvenuto Cellini had made such an impression on me that I stupidly concluded that it would be both dramatic and interesting to other people. I therefore asked Léon de Wailly and Auguste Barbier to write me a libretto on it. I must own that even our friends thought it had not the elements essential to success, but it pleased me, and even now I cannot see that it is inferior to many others that are played daily.

In order to please the management of the _Débats_, Duponchel, manager of the Opera--who looked upon me as a species of lunatic--read the libretto and agreed to take my opera. After which he went about saying that he was going to put it on, not on account of the music, which was ridiculous, but of the book, which was charming.

Never shall I forget the misery of those three months’ rehearsals. The indifference of the actors, riding for a fall, Habeneck’s bad temper, the vague rumours I heard on all sides, all betrayed a general hostility against which I was powerless. It was worse when we came to the orchestra. The executants, seeing Habeneck’s surly manner, were cold and reserved with me. Still they did their duty, which he did not. He never could manage the quick _tempo_ of the saltarello; the dancers, unable to dance to his dragging measure, complained to me. I cried:

“Faster! Faster! Wake up!”

Habeneck, in a rage, hit his desk and broke his bow.

After several exhibitions of temper of this sort I said, calmly:

“My good sir, breaking fifty bows will not prevent your time being twice as slow as it ought to be. This is a saltarello.”

He turned to the orchestra.

“Since it is impossible to please M. Berlioz,” said he, “we will stop for to-day. You may go.”

If only I could have conducted myself! But in France authors are not allowed to direct their own works in theatres.

Years later I conducted my _Carnaval Romain_, where that very saltarello comes in, without the wind instruments having any rehearsal at all; and Habeneck, certain that I should come to grief, was present. I rushed the allegro at the proper time and everything went perfectly.

The audience cried “encore,” and the second time was even better than the first. I met Habeneck as we went out, and threw four words at him over my shoulder.

“That’s how it goes.” He did not reply.

I never felt so happy conducting as I did that day; the thought of the torments Habeneck had made me suffer increased my pleasure.

* * * * *

But to return to _Benvenuto_.

Gradually the larger part of the orchestra came over to my side, and several declared that this was the most original score they had ever played. Duponchel heard them and said:

“Was ever such a right-about face? Now they think Berlioz’ music charming, and the idiots are praising it up to the skies.”

Still some malcontents remained, and two were found one night playing _J’ai du bon tabac_ instead of their parts.

It was just the same on the stage. The dancers pinched their partners, who, by their shrieks, upset the chorus. When, in despair, I sent for Duponchel he was never to be found; attending rehearsal was beneath his dignity.

The opera came on at last. The overture made a furore, the rest was unmercifully hissed. However it was played three times.

It is fourteen years (I write in 1850) since I was thus pilloried at the opera, and I have just read over my poor score, carefully and impartially. I cannot help thinking that it shows an originality, a raciness and a brilliancy that I shall, probably, never have again and which deserve a better fate.[15]

_Benvenuto_ took me a long time to write and would never have been ready--tied as I was by my bread-earning journalistic work--had it not been for the help of a friend.

It was heart-breaking, and I had almost given up the opera in despair when Ernest Legouvé came to me, asking:

“Is your opera done?”

“First act not even ready yet. I have no time to compose.”

“But supposing you had time----”

“I would write from dawn till dark.”

“How much would make you independent?”

“Two thousand francs.”

“And suppose someone--If someone--Come, do help me out!”

“With what? What do you mean?”

“Why, suppose a friend lent it to you?”

“What friend could I ask for such a sum?”

“You needn’t ask when I offer it----”

Think of my relief! In real truth, next day Legouvé lent me two thousand francs, and I finished _Benvenuto_. His noble heart--writer and artist as he was--guessed my trouble and feared to wound me by his offer! I have been fortunate in having many staunch friends.

Paganini was back in Paris when _Benvenuto_ was slaughtered; he felt for me deeply and said:

“If I were a manager I would commission that young man to write me three operas. He should be paid in advance, and I should make a splendid thing by it.”

Mortification and the suppressed rage in which I had lived during those everlasting rehearsals, brought on a bad attack of bronchitis that kept me in bed, unable to work.

But we had to live, and I determined to give two concerts at the Conservatoire. The first barely paid its expenses so, as an attraction, I advertised the _Fantastique_ and _Harold_ together for the 16th December 1838.

Now Paganini, although it was written at his desire, had never heard _Harold_, and, after the concert, as I waited--trembling, exhausted, bathed in perspiration--he, with his little son, Achille, appeared at the orchestra door, gesticulating violently. Consumption of the throat, of which he afterwards died, prevented his speaking audibly and Achille alone could interpret his wishes.

He signed to the child, who climbed on a chair and put his ear close to his father’s mouth, then turning to me he said:

“Monsieur, my father orders me to tell you that never has he been so struck by music. He wishes to kneel and thank you.”

Confused and embarrassed, I could not speak, but Paganini seized my arm, hoarsely ejaculating, “Yes! Yes!” dragged me into the theatre where several of my players still lingered--and there knelt and kissed my hand.

Coming away in a fever from this strange scene, I met Armand Bertin; stopping to speak to him in that intense cold sent me home to bed worse than ever. Next day, as I lay, ill and alone, little Achille came in.

“My father will be very sorry you are ill,” he said, “if he had not been ill himself he would have come to see you. He told me to give you this letter.”

As I began to open it, the child stopped me:

“He said you must read it alone. There is no answer.” And he hurried out.

I supposed it just a letter of congratulation; but here it is:

“DEAR FRIEND,--Only Berlioz can recall Beethoven, and I,
who have heard that divine work--so worthy of your genius--beg
you to accept the enclosed 20,000 francs, as a tribute of
respect.--Believe me ever, your affectionate friend,

NICCOLO PAGANINI.

“PARIS, _18th Dec. 1838_.”

I knew enough Italian to make out the letter, but it surprised me so greatly that my head swam, and, without thinking of what I was doing, I opened the little note which was enclosed and addressed to M. de Rothschild. It was in French and ran:

“MONSIEUR LE BARON,--Would you be so good as to hand over
the 20,000 francs that I deposited yesterday to M. Berlioz.

PAGANINI.”

Then I understood.

My wife, coming in, thought that some new trouble had fallen upon us.

“What is it now?” she cried. “Be brave! we have borne so much already.”

“No, no--not that----”

“What then?”

“Paganini--has sent me--20,000 francs!”

“Louis! Louis!” cried Henriette, rushing for her boy, “come here to your mother and thank God.”

And together they knelt by my bed--grateful mother and wondering child. Oh Paganini! why could you not be there to see?

Naturally, my first thought was to thank him. My letter seemed so poor, so inadequate, that I am ashamed to give it here. There are feelings beyond words.

His munificent kindness was soon noised abroad and my room besieged by friends anxious to know the facts. All rejoiced and some were jealous--not of me, but of Paganini, who was rich enough to do such deeds. Then began the comments, fury and lies of my opponents, followed by the congratulatory letter of Janin and his eloquent article in the _Débats_.

For a week I lay in bed, burning with impatience to see and thank my benefactor. Then I hurried to his house and found him in the billiard-room. We embraced in silence then, as I poured forth broken thanks, he spoke and--thanks to the silence of the room--I was able to make out his words.

“Not a word! It is so little and has given me the greatest pleasure of my life. You cannot tell how much your music moves me. Ah!” he cried, with a blow of his fist on the table, “now your enemies will be silenced for they know I understand and am not easily satisfied.”

But great as was his name it was not great enough to silence the dogs of Paris; in a few weeks they were again baying at my heels.

My earnest wish, now that all debts were paid and a handsome sum remained in hand, was to write a masterpiece, grand, impassioned, original, worthy of dedication to the master to whom I owed so much.

But Paganini, growing worse, had left for Nice, whence alas! he returned no more. I consulted him as to a suitable theme, but he replied:

“I cannot advise you. You best know what suits you best.”

After much wavering I fixed on a choral symphony on Shakespeare’s _Romeo and Juliet_, and wrote the prose words for the choral portion, which Emile Deschamps, with his usual kindness and extraordinary versatility, put into poetry for me.

Ah! the joy of no more newspaper articles!--or at least hardly any. Paganini had given me money to make music, and I made it. For seven months, with only a few days’ intermission, did I work at my symphony.

And, during those months, what a burning, exhilarating life I led! Ah! the joy of floating on the halcyon sea of poetry; wafted onward by the sweet soft breeze of imagination; warmed by the rays of that golden sun of love unveiled by Shakespeare! I felt within me the god-like strength to win my way to that blessed hidden isle, where the temple of pure art raises its soaring columns to the sky.

To others must I leave it to say whether I ever truly looked upon its glories.

Such as it was, my symphony was performed three times running, and each time appeared to be a great success. To my sorrow, Paganini never heard it nor read it. I hoped to see him again in Paris; then to send him the printed score; but he died at Nice leaving to me the poignant sorrow that he would never judge whether the work, undertaken to please him and to justify his faith in its author, was worthy of his great trust.

He, too, seemed sorry not to have known it, and in his letter of the 7th January 1840, he wrote:

“Now it is well done; jealousy can but be silent.”

Dear, noble friend! He never saw the ribald nonsense written about my work; how one called my _Queen Mab_ music a badly-oiled squirt, how another--speaking of the _Love-Scene_, which musicians place in the forefront of my work--said I _did not understand Shakespeare_!

Empty-headed toad, bursting with stupid self-importance! If you could prove that....

Never was I more deeply hurt by criticism, and yet none of these high priests of art deigned to point out the faults, which I thankfully corrected, when told of them.

For instance, Ernst’s secretary, M. Frankoski, wrote from Vienna saying that the end of _Queen Mab_ was too abrupt; I therefore wrote the present coda and destroyed the original one.

The criticisms of M. d’Ortigue I also appreciated. The rest of the alterations were my own.

But the symphony is enormously difficult for the executants, both in form and style, and needs most careful, conscientious practice and perfect conducting--which means that none but first-rate artists in each department could possibly do it.

For this reason it will never be given in London. They do not give enough time to rehearsals. The musicians there have no time for music.[16]

XXV

BRUSSELS--PARIS OPERA CONCERT

_To_ FRANZ LISZT.

“PARIS, _6th August 1839_.--I long, dear friend, to
tell you all the musical news--at least all that I know. Not
that you will find anything new in it. You must be quite _blasé_
with studying Italian modes of thought; they are dreadfully like
Parisian ones.

“I know you have not the heart to laugh at them, for you are not
of those who find subject for mirth in the insults offered to our
Muse--you would rather, at any cost, hide the blemishes upon her
snowy robes and the woful rents in her shimmering veil of light.

“So I will content myself with calmly stating facts and retailing
news, whereby I can preserve a dignified quiet, and can simply deal
out remarks without theorising.

“The day before yesterday, as I was smoking a cigar in the
Boulevard des Italiens, Batta caught me by the arm.

“‘What are they up to in London?’ I
asked.

“‘Nothing whatever. They despise music
and poetry and drama--everything. They go to the Italian Opera
because the Queen goes, and that’s all. I feel quite thankful
not to be out of pocket and to have been clapped at two or three
concerts. That is all the British hospitality I can boast of. Even
Artot, in spite of his Philharmonic success, was horribly bored.’

“‘And Doehler?’

“‘Bored also.’

“‘Thalberg?’

“‘Is cultivating the provinces.’

“‘Benedict----’

“‘Encouraged by the success of his
first attempt, is writing an English opera.’

“‘Well, I’m off. Come to Hallé’s
to-night, we are going to drink and have some music.’

“M. Hallé is a young German pianist--tall, thin, and
long-haired--who plays magnificently, and seems to get at music by
instinct rather than by notes--that is to say, he is rather like
you. Real talent, immense knowledge, perfect execution, are among
the gifts we all recognise in him.

“Hallé and Batta played Mendelssohn’s B flat sonata, then we had a
chorus over our beer, then Beethoven’s A major sonata, of which the
first movement excited us wildly, and the minuet and finale drove
us to the verge of lunacy.

“Oh you untiring vagabond! when will you return, once more to
preside over our nights of music?

“Between ourselves, you always had too many people at your
gatherings--too much talk, too little listening. You, alone, wasted
an amount of inspiration that was enough to turn one giddy, without
all the rest of the folks in addition.

“Do you remember that evening at Legouvé’s when--the lights put
out--you played the C sharp minor sonata, we five lying in the
dark on the floor? My tears and Legouvé’s, Schoelcher’s wondering
respect, Goubeaux’s astonishment! Ah me! you were indeed sublime
that night!

“But to get back to news.

“There is a glorious row toward between our Opera troupe and the
Italian; they want to unite them in the Rue Le Pelletier. It will
be rather a shock. Lablache against Levasseur, Rubini against
Duprez, Tamburini against Dérivis, Grisi against Mdlle. Naudin and
the whole lot against the big drum.

“We mean to be there to pick up the dead and the dying. Lots of
people find fault with the Opera orchestra, they say they do not
keep in tune, that the right-hand side tends to get a quarter-tone
higher than the left--which these gentlemen consider most
unreasonable----

“‘You seem to suffer in silence,’ one
of them said to me the other day.

“‘I? I did not say I suffered at all,’
I replied. ‘First, because I never said a word, and secondly,
because....’

“Sometimes when they are at their wit’s end they play _Don
Giovanni_. If Mozart could come back to this world, he would tell
them (like Molière’s president) that he would not have it _played_.

“The other day, Ambroise Thomas, Morel, and I were saying we would
give five hundred francs for a good performance of Spontini’s
_Vestale_; that set us off--we know it by heart--and we went on
singing it till midnight.

“But we missed you for our accompaniments.

“I am just pouring out news as it comes into my head. Hiller has
sent me part of his _Romilda_ from Milan. One of our enemies wished
to throw himself off the Vendome Column the other day. He gave the
keeper forty francs to let him go up--then changed his mind and
walked down again.

“Chopin is still away; they said he was very ill, but there
is no truth in it. Dumas has just written an exquisite
thing--_Mademoiselle de Belle Isle_--but that is out of my
province. There! no more news.

“My indifferentism does not extend to you and your long absence.
Come back soon. It is high time you did, both for us and, I hope,
for yourself too. Adieu.”

In 1840 the Government proposed celebrating the tenth anniversary of the Revolution by exceptional ceremonies, and the Minister of the Interior, M. de Remusat, who, like M. de Gasparin, had a soul for music, commissioned me to write a symphony, leaving form and all details entirely to me.

I planned a great symphony, on broad, simple lines, and as it was to be played in the open air where delicate orchestral effects would be lost, I engaged a military band of two hundred men.

Habeneck was anxious to conduct but, remembering the snuff trick, I preferred to do my own conducting.

Most fortunately, I invited a large audience to the final rehearsal, feeling sure that my work could not be properly judged on the day of performance.

And so it proved. On the great Place de la Bastille, ten yards away, you could make out nothing, and to make things worse, the legions of the National Guard marched off right in the middle, to the rattle of fifty kettledrums. That is the way music is always honoured in France at public _fêtes_, apparently they think it is meant to please--the eye.

Towards the end of this year I made my first musical venture out of France, as M. Snel, of Brussels, asked me to direct some of my works for the _Société de la Grande Harmonie_ in the Belgian capital.

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_.

“‘Do you really dislike it?’ he said,
eagerly. ‘I am so glad. I was afraid you were pleased with it, and
I think it simply horrid.’

“Then we nearly quarrelled next day because I spoke
enthusiastically of Gluck. He said disdainfully:

“‘Do you like Gluck?’ as much as to
say, ‘How can a music-maker like you appreciate the majesty of
Gluck?’

“I took my revenge a few days after by putting on Montfort’s piano
a manuscript copy of an air from _Telemaco_ without the author’s
name to it. Mendelssohn came, picked it up thinking it was a bit
of Italian opera, and began parodying it. I stopped him in assumed
astonishment, saying:

“‘Hallo, don’t you like Gluck?’<span
class="lftspc">”</span>

“‘Gluck?’”