Chapter VII: Part 7

“‘Why yes, my dear fellow. That is
Gluck, not Bellini as you seem to think. You see I know him
better than you do, and am more of your own opinion than you are
yourself.’”

“One day, speaking of the uses of the metronome, he broke in--

“‘What’s the good of one? A musician
who can’t guess the time of a piece of music at sight is a
duffer.’”

“I might have replied, but did not, that there were lots of
duffers. Soon after he asked to see my _King Lear_. He read it
through slowly, then, just as he was going to play it (his talent
for score-reading was incomparable), said:

“‘Give me the time.’

“‘What for? You said yesterday that
only duffers needed to be told the time of a piece.’

“He did not show it, but these home thrusts annoyed him intensely.
He never mentioned Bach without adding ironically, ‘_your little
pupil_.’ In fact, over music he was a regular porcupine; you could
never tell where to have him. In every other way he was perfectly
charming and sweet-tempered.

“In Rome I learnt to appreciate the beauties of his marvellous
_Fingal’s Cave_. Often, worn out by the scirocco and thoroughly
out of sorts, I would hunt him out and tear him away from his
composition. With perfect good humour--seeing my pitiable state--he
would lay aside his pen, and, with his extraordinary facility
in remembering intricate scores, would play whatever I chose to
name--he properly and soberly seated at the piano, I curled up in
a snappy bunch on his sofa.

“He liked me, with my wearied voice, to murmur out my setting of
Moore’s melodies. He always had a certain amount of commendation
for my--little songs!

“After a month of this intercourse--so full of interest for me--he
disappeared without saying good-bye, and I saw him no more.

“His Leipzig letter, therefore, the more agreeably surprised me,
for it showed an unexpected and genial kindness of heart that I
found to be one of his most notable characteristics.

“The Concert Society has a magnificent hall--the Gewandhaus--of
which the acoustic is perfect. I went straight to see it, and
stumbled into the middle of the final rehearsal of Mendelssohn’s
_Walpurgis Nacht_.

“I am inclined to think[18] that this is the finest thing he has
yet done, and I hardly know which to praise most--orchestra,
chorus, or the whole combined effect.

“As Mendelssohn came down from his desk, radiant with success, I
went to meet him. It was the right moment for our greetings, yet,
after the first words, the same thought struck us both--‘Twelve
years since we wandered day-dreaming in the Campagna!’

“‘Are you still a jester?’ he asked.

“‘Ah no! my joking days are past. To
show you how sober and in earnest I am, I hereby solemnly beg a
priceless gift of you.’

“‘That is----’

“‘The baton with which you conduct your
new work.’

“‘By all means, if I may have yours
instead?’

“‘It will be copper for gold, still you
shall have it.

“Next day came Mendelssohn’s musical sceptre, for which I returned
my heavy oak cudgel with the following note, which I hope would not
have disgraced the Last of the Mohicans:--

“‘Great Chief! To exchange our
tomahawks is our word given. Common is mine, plain is yours. Squaws
and Pale-faces alone love ornament. May we be brethren, so that,
when the Great Spirit calls us to the happy hunting grounds, our
warriors may hang our tomahawks side by side in the door-way of the
Long House.’”

_To_ JOSEPH D’ORTIGUE.

“_28th February 1843._--My trade of galley-slave is my excuse for
not having written sooner. I have been, and am still, ill with
fatigue, the work involved in conducting rehearsals in both Leipzig
and Dresden is incredible.

“Mendelssohn is most kind, friendly, and attentive--a master of the
highest rank. I can honestly say this in spite of his admiration
for my _songs_--of my symphonies, overtures, and _Requiem_ he says
never a word!

“His _Walpurgis Nacht_ is one of the finest orchestral poems
imaginable.

“Can you believe that Schumann, the taciturn, was so electrified by
my _Offertorium_ that he actually opened his mouth, and, shaking my
hand, said:

“This _Offertorium_ surpasses all.’”

_To_ HELLER.

“It really pains me to see a great master like Mendelssohn worried
with the paltry task of chorus-master. I never cease marvelling at
his patience and politeness. His every remark is calm and pleasant,
and his attitude is the more appreciated by those who, like myself,
know how rare such patience is.

“I have often been accused of rudeness to the ladies of the Opera
chorus--a reputation which I own I richly deserve--but the very
minute there is question of a choral rehearsal a sort of dull
anger takes possession of me, my throat closes up, and I glare at
the singers very much like that Gascon who kicked an inoffensive
small boy, and, when reproached because the child had done nothing,
replied:

“‘But just think if he _had_!’

“A charming little incident concluded my Leipzig visit. I had again
been ill, and, on leaving, asked my doctor for his account. ‘Write
me the theme of your _Offertorium_,’ he said, ‘and sign it, and I
shall be your debtor.’

“I hesitated, but finally did as he wished, and then, will you
believe that I missed the chance of a charming compliment? I wrote:
‘To Dr Clarus.’

“‘Oh,’ said he, ‘you have added an _l_
to my name.’

“I thought:

“‘Patientibus _Carus_, sed inter doctes
_Clarus_,’ and had not the sense to say it!

“There are times when I am really quite idiotic.

“Now for your questions. You ask me to tell you--

“Is there a rival to Madame Schumann as a pianist? I believe not.

“Is the musical tendency of Leipzig sound? I will not.

“Is it true that the confession of faith here is ‘there is no God
but Bach, and Mendelssohn is his prophet?’ I ought not.

“If the public is at fault in being contented with Lortzing’s
little operas? I cannot.

“If I have heard any of those old five-part Masses they think so
much of here? I know not.

“Good-bye. Write more of your lovely capriccios, and the Lord
preserve you from Choral Fugues!”

_To_ ERNST.

“And now about Dresden. I was engaged to give two concerts there,
and found chorus, orchestra, and a noble tenor all complete!
Nowhere else in Germany have I happened on such wealth. Above all,
I found a friend--devoted, energetic, and enthusiastic--Charles
Lipinski, whom I knew in Paris. He so worked upon the musicians, by
firing them with ambition to do better than Leipzig, that they were
rabid for rehearsals. We had four, and they would gladly have had a
fifth had there been time.

“The Dresden _Kapelle_ is directed by Reissiger, of whom we know
little in Paris, and by young Richard Wagner, who spent a long time
with us, without, however, making himself known except by a few
articles in the _Gazette Musicale_. He has only just received his
appointment, and, proud and pleased, is doing his very best to help
me.

“He bore endless privations in France, with the added bitterness of
obscurity, yet he returned to Saxony and boldly wrote and composed
a five-act opera, _Rienzi_, of which the success was so great that
he followed it up with the _Flying Dutchman_.

“A man who could, twice over, write words and music for an opera
must be exceptionally gifted, and the King of Saxony did well to
give him the appointment.

“I only heard the second part of _Rienzi_, which is too long to be
played in one evening, and I cannot, in one hearing, pretend to
know it thoroughly, but I particularly noted a fine prayer and a
triumphal march.

“The score of the _Flying Dutchman_ struck me by its sombre
colouring, and the clever effect of some tempestuous motifs.
But there, as in _Rienzi_, I thought he abused the use of the
_tremolo_--sign of a certain lazy attitude of mind against which
he must guard.

“In spite of that, all honour to the royal remembrance that has
saved from despair such a highly endowed young artist.

“My concerts were successful, the second even more so than the
first. What the public liked best were the _Requiem_--although we
could not give the most difficult numbers of it--and the _5th May
Cantata_, no doubt because the memory of Napoleon is as dear to the
Germans now as to us French.[19]

“I made the acquaintance of that wonderful English harpist,
Parish-Alvars. He is indeed the Liszt of the harp! He produces the
most extraordinary effects, and has written a fantasia on _Moses_
that Thalberg has most happily arranged for the piano.

“Why on earth does he not come to Paris?

“When I left Dresden to go back to Leipzig, Lipinski heard that
Mendelssohn had put the finale of _Romeo and Juliet_ in rehearsal,
and told me that if he could get a holiday he should go over and
hear it.

“I thought it was a mere compliment, but judge of my consternation
when, on the day of the concert, he turned up. He had travelled
thirty-five leagues to hear a piece that was not given after all,
because the singer who was entrusted with Friar Lawrence’s part
refused to learn his notes!

_To_ H. HEINE.

“So great has been my happiness in your good town of Brunswick that
I should like to tell it all to my dearest foes instead of to you,
my friend, to whom it can hardly give pleasure!

“But a truce to irony; it is mere vanity that makes me begin like
this, taking a leaf out of your book--inimitable satirist!

“How often in our talks have I regretted that nothing would make
you serious, that nothing would stop the restless working of those
feline claws, even when you were under the delusion that they were
safely sheathed in your velvet paws--you tiger-cat!

“Yet look at the sensitive, delicate imagery of your writings--for
you _can_ sing major when you choose; at your enthusiasm when
you let yourself go; at your tender hidden love for your old
grandmother, Germany!

“She, too, speaks of you with wistful tenderness; her elder sons
are dead and gone; there remains but you, whom she calls, with a
smile, her naughty boy.

“It would be easy for you to make splendid travesties of my
Brunswick visit, yet such is my fearless confidence in you, that to
you I mean to tell everything.

“That ideal family of musicians, the Müllers, received me and
arranged my concert. I counted altogether seven of them, brothers,
sons, and nephews, and never in all my travels did I see so devoted
and impassioned a set of men.

“As soon as they grasped the chief difficulties of my symphonies
(which they did at the first rehearsal), their progress between
each meeting was simply incredible. On my expressing surprise, I
found that they were deceiving me about the time, and that the
whole orchestra actually arrived each morning an hour before I did
to practise the intricate passages.

“At Zinkeisen’s request we actually dared to try _Queen Mab_, which
I had never hitherto dared do in Germany. ‘We will practise so
hard,’ said he, ‘that we _must_ do it.’

“He did not misjudge his colleagues; my dainty little lady in her
microscopic car, drawn by humming gnats at full gallop, disported
herself with all her tricksey caprices--to the delight of the good
Brunswickers.

“You--own brother to fairies and will-o’-the-wisps and their chosen
poet laureate--will realise my misgivings; but never did my tiny
invisible queen glide more happily and gaily through her world of
silent harmonies.

“Then, in contrast, with what magnificent fury did they not seize
on the _Orgie_ in _Harold_.

“There was something absolutely terrifying and supernatural in
their diabolic rhythm as they bounded, roared, and clashed. Ah, you
poets! No joy is yours equal to the joy of conducting!

“I longed to fold the whole orchestra in one comprehensive embrace,
but all I could do was cry in French--

“‘Gentlemen, you are sublime! You are
stupendous brigands!’

“The concert was crowded and the audience quite carried away;
hardly was the last chord struck when a frantic noise shook the
hall; it was compounded of the shouts of the listeners, the
discordant blare of the wind instruments, the tapping of bows on
the violins, and the clang of percussion instruments.

“At first I felt perfectly savage at this ruin to my finale, but I
calmed down when George Müller, laden with flowers, stepped forward
and said in French:

“‘Monsieur, allow me to offer these in
the name of the Ducal Kapelle.’

“The shouts and noise redoubled, my baton fell from my hand, and my
head whirled.

“Hardly had I left the theatre when I was invited to a supper given
in my honour by artists and amateurs. There were a hundred and
fifty guests.

“Toasts, speeches in French and German, to which I responded as
well as I could, then a most musical and effective hurrah was
chanted by all in chorus. The basses began on D, tenors on A, and
the ladies following on F♯, made up the chord of D major, to which
succeeded the sub-dominant, tonic, dominant, tonic. It was most
beautiful, most worthy of a really musical nation. Will you laugh
and call me a great simpleton for repeating all this, dear Heine? I
must candidly own that I enjoyed it.

“From Brunswick I journeyed on to your native city of Hamburg,
where I again had the pleasure of a crowded house and appreciative
audience, and made many friends among the orchestra. Krebs alone
was reserved in his praise. ‘My dear fellow,’ said he, ‘in a few
years your music will be all over Germany, and will be popular,
and that will be an awful misfortune! Think of the imitations, the
eccentricities, the style it will let us in for! For Art’s sake it
were better you had never been born!!’

“Let us hope my poor symphonies are not as contagious as he thinks.
And so, O maker of poems, adieu!”

From Hamburg I went to Berlin and Hanover, finishing at Darmstadt where the Grand Duke insisted not only on my taking the full receipts from my concert (so far Weimar--city of artists--was the only one that had extended to me this courtesy) but, in addition, refused to let me pay any of the expenses.

Everywhere I met with success and made friends.

Thus ended the longest and perhaps the most arduous pilgrimage ever taken by a musician; its memory will, to me, be ever green.

How can I thank thee, Germany, noble foster-mother to the sons of music? How express my gratitude, admiration, and regret? I know not. I can but bow before thee humbly and murmur brokenly--

“Vale Germania, alma parens!”

XXVIII

A COLOSSAL CONCERT

When I got back to Paris, I found M. Pillet planning a revival of _Der Freyschütz_. Now, by the rules of the Opera every word must be sung and as there are spoken dialogues in Weber’s opera he engaged me to set them in the form of recitations.

“It is all wrong,” I said, “but as that is the only condition on which it will be played and as, if I don’t do it, you will give it to someone who does not know Weber as I do, I accept but with one stipulation--that you change neither music nor libretto.”

“Certainly,” he replied, “do you suppose I would revive _Robin des Bois_?”

“Very well, then I will get to work at once. How are you arranging the parts?”

“Madame Stolz, Agatha; Mdlle. Dobré, Annette; Duprez, Max.”

“I bet he won’t take it,” I said.

“Why not?”

“You will see soon enough.”

“Bouché will do well for Gaspard.”

“And the Hermit?”

“Oh--well--” said he, awkwardly, “you know the Hermit isn’t much use, I was going--to cut him out.”

“H’m! Really? Yet you are going to act _Freyschütz_ and not _Robin des Bois_. Evidently, since we sha’n’t agree, it is better for me to retire at once for I can’t stand that sort of correction.”

“Dear me! how wholesale you are in your notions. Very well, we will keep the Hermit, we will keep everything, lock, stock, and barrel.”

Then my troubles began. The actors would make their recitations as slow and stately as a tragedy; Duprez,--as I foretold--although ten years before he had been a light tenor and had managed Max perfectly--found it impossible to adapt his fine tenor voice to the music and demanded all sorts of unheard-of transpositions and alterations. I cut them short by refusing to disintegrate the rôle and it was handed over to Marié.

Then nothing would do but they must have a ballet, and as I could not stop it I tried to arrange a sort of scene from Weber’s _Invitation to the Waltz_; but that was not enough, so the dancers themselves took it into their heads that some bits out of my symphonies would come in nicely.

Pillet agreed. I did not; and, to stop discussion, I said:

“Now look here! I entirely object to introducing into _Der Freyschütz_ music that is not Weber’s. To prove that I am not unreasonable, go and ask Dessauer, who is over there; I will abide by his decision.”

At Pillet’s first words Dessauer turned sharply to me:

“Oh, Berlioz! don’t do that!”

That ended the matter for the time and the opera was a success. But when I went to Russia they cut and chopped and gnawed it until it was simply a deformity.

And _how_ they play what is left now! What a conductor! What a chorus! What utterly sleepy, disgraceful ineptitude and misinterpretation of everything by everybody!

When will a new Christ come to purge our temple and drive out the money changers with a scourge!

* * * * *

I returned to my treadmill--journalism--once more, and oh! the horror of it!

The misery of writing to order an article on nothing in particular--or on things that, as far as I was concerned, simply did not exist since they excited in me no feeling of any description whatsoever. Long ago I remember spending three days over a critique without being able to write one word. I cannot remember the subject but I well remember my torments.

I strode up and down, my brain on fire; I gazed at the setting sun, the neighbouring gardens, the heights of Montmartre--my thoughts a thousand miles away.

Then, as I turned and saw that confounded white paper without a line on it, I flew into the wildest rage.

My unoffending guitar leant against the wall. I kicked it to bits; my pistols stared at me from the wall with big round eyes. I gazed back, then, tearing my hair, burst into burning tears.

That soothed me somewhat, I turned those staring pistols face to the wall and picked up my poor guitar which gave forth a plaintive wail. Then my six-year-old boy, with whom I had unjustly found fault, tapped at the door. As I did not answer he cried:

“Father, is you friends?”

“Yes, yes, my boy, I is friends!” and I flew to let him in. I took him on my knee and laid his fair head on my shoulder; we dropped asleep together and my article was forgotten. Next morning I managed to write something. That is fifteen years ago and my martyrdom still lasts! It is not that I mind work. I can grind at rehearsals for hours at a time; can spend my nights in correcting proofs; can and will do anything and everything that pertains to my work as a musician.

But to eternally pamphleteer for a living! It is cruel!

_To_ HUMBERT FERRAND.

“_3rd October 1844._--I read in the _Débats_ of your splendid
agricultural success and can imagine how much work and
perseverance it involves. You are a kind of Robinson Crusoe in
your island,[20] and when the sun shines I long to be with you, to
breathe the spicy air, to follow you from field to field, to listen
with you to the sweet silence of your lonely groves--our affection
is so sure, so whole-hearted, so perfect!

“Yet when dull days come and mists rise, the fever of Paris seizes
me once more and I feel that here only is life possible. But can
you believe that a strange sort of torpid resignation with regard
to things musical has taken possession of me? It is as well, for
this indifference saves my strength for the time when a passionate
struggle may become necessary.

“You have doubtless heard of the marvellous success of my _Requiem_
in St Petersburg. Romberg most bravely tackled the enormous expense
and, thanks to the generosity of the Russian aristocracy, made a
profit of five thousand francs. Give me a despotic government as
nursing mother of Art!

“If you could but be here this winter! I long to see you. I seem to
be going down hill so rapidly, life is so short! The end is often
before my eyes now and I clutch with frenzied eagerness at the
flowers beside my path as I slip quickly past.

“There was a rumour that I was to succeed Habeneck at the Opera,
it is a dictatorship that I should enjoy in the interests of
Art. But, for that, Habeneck would have to be translated to the
Conservatoire, where Cherubini still goes to sleep. Perhaps when I
am old and incapable I shall go to the Conservatoire. At present I
am too young to dream of it!”

I was railing more than usual at my hard fate when Strauss proposed that we should give a concert at the close of the 1844 Exhibition, in the empty building.

It was a tremendous undertaking, for his original intention was to have also a ball and a banquet to the exhibitors. But, owing to the fixed idea of M. Delessert, chief of the police, that plots and risings were in the air, we were forced to reduce it to a classical concert for me and a popular promenade concert next day for Strauss.

Rushing all over Paris I engaged nearly every musician of any consequence and gathered a body of 1022 performers--all paid except the singers from the lyric theatres, who helped me for love of music.

The rehearsals and general arrangements were most arduous and my anxiety lest we should fail nearly killed me. The great day, the 1st August, came and at noon (the concert began at one o’clock) I went to the Exhibition, noticing with pleasure the stream of carriages all converging on the Champs Elysées. Everything inside the building was in perfect order, everyone in his or her appointed place, and my good friend and indefatigable librarian, M. Rocquemont, assured me that all would go perfectly.

Musical delirium seized me, I thought no more of public, receipts or deficit, but was just raising my baton to begin when a violent smashing of wood announced that the people had burst the barriers and filled the hall. This meant success and I joyfully tapped my desk, crying:

“Saved!”

To direct my mass of performers I had Tilmant to conduct the wind, Morel[21] the percussion instruments, and five chorus-masters, one in the centre and four at the corners to guide those singers who were out of my range. Thus there were seven deputy-conductors, whose arms rose and fell with mine with incredible precision.

The Blessing of the Daggers from the _Huguenots_ was given with an imposing effect that surpassed my expectations. I wished Meyerbeer could have heard it. It worked upon me so that my teeth chattered and I shook with nervous ague. The concert had to be stopped while they brought me some punch and a change of clothes, and by making a little screen of the harps in their linen covers, I was enabled to dress right before the audience without being seen.

The concert finished triumphantly with the utmost satisfaction to artists and audience but, as I went out, I had the gruesome pleasure of seeing the hospital authorities counting our receipts and walking off with the _eighth gross_--that is, four thousand francs--which left me, when all was paid, with eight hundred francs for all my trouble and anxiety.

This mad experiment was hardly over when M. Amussat, my anatomy master and friend, called.

“Why, Berlioz!” he said, “what on earth is the matter? You are as yellow as a guinea and look thoroughly overdone.”

He felt my pulse.

“You are on the verge of typhoid and must be bled.”

“Very well, do it now.”

He did, and then said:

“You will please leave Paris at once and go to the Riviera or somewhere south by the sea and forget all these exciting topics. Be off at once.”

With my eight hundred francs I went to Nice. It moved me strangely to see those haunts of thirteen years earlier--the days of my youth.

I bathed, explored the well-known cliffs, paid my respects to the old cannon, still asleep in the sun; the room in which I wrote _King Lear_ was let to an English family so I found shelter in an old tower adjoining the Ponchettes Rocks. After a month’s lotus-eating I turned my face once more to Paris and took up again my Sisyphus burden.

After giving some concerts in the circus of the Champs Elysées, which fatigued me greatly I again took a rest on the Mediterranean shores then gave some more concerts in Marseilles, Lyons and Lille of which I have given a full account in my _Grotesques de la Musique_. Shortly afterwards I started on my tour through Austria, Bohemia and Hungary.

XXIX

THE RAKOCZY MARCH

Of my journey from Paris to Vienna I only have two distinct impressions--one of a violent pain in my side that I thought would be the death of me and the other of a species of god I saw at Augsbourg. This worthy man had founded a sort of neo-christianity which was rather popular: he looked a decent sort of fellow.

At Ratisbon the steamer had gone, so I was obliged to wait two days and then go on in a diligence, which made me feel as if I had gone back into the Dark Ages. At Linz, however, I set foot on a fine steam-boat, and found myself once more in A.D. 1845.

But I had time for reflection and could not help wondering why on earth we cannot all spell the names of places alike. There was I, hunting through a German map. Linz was graciously pleased to be the same in both languages, but where was Ratisbon? Who could possibly find it masquerading as Regensburg?

What should we say to the Germans if they persisted in calling Lyons, Mittenberg, and Paris, Triffenstein?

On landing at Vienna I at once got an idea of the passion for music of the Austrians.

The custom-house officer examining my trunks caught sight of the name on them and asked:

“Where is he? Where is he?”

“I am he, monsieur.”

“_Mein Gott_, M. Berlioz, where in the world have you been? We have been waiting for you a week and couldn’t think what had become of you.”

I thanked my worthy friend as well as my limited vocabulary would allow, and could not help thinking that my non-appearance would never give rise to similar anxiety at the Paris Douane.

The first concert I went to was one in the Riding School, given by nearly a thousand performers--most of them amateurs--for the benefit of the Conservatoire, which has no, or very little, Government support. The verve and precision with which that musical crowd rendered Mozart’s delicate _Flauto Magico_ overture quite astonished me, I had not believed it possible.

I was delighted to make the acquaintance of Nicolaï, conductor of the Kärnthnerthor Theatre; he has the three gifts necessary--to my mind--for a perfect director. He is an experienced, enthusiastic composer, has perfect intuition for rhythms and clear-cut and precise mechanism. Finally, he is a clever organiser, sparing neither time nor trouble; hence the wonderful unity and perfection of the Kärnthnerthor orchestra.

He arranged sacred concerts in the _Salle des Redoutes_ similar to ours in Paris. There I heard a scena from _Oberon_, a fine symphony of Nicolaï’s own and the incomparable B flat of Beethoven.

It is in this fine hall that, thirty years since, Beethoven gave his masterpieces--now worshipped by Europe, but then despised by the Viennese, who crowded to hear Salieri’s operas! How my knees trembled as I stood at the desk where once _he_ had stood! Nothing is changed; the desk I used is the very one that he had used, by that staircase he had come up to receive the applause of his few admirers, looked upon by the rest of the audience as fanatics in search of eccentricity.

For recognition Beethoven had to wait, but how he suffered!

To my great delight Pischek, the splendid baritone I had met and admired in Frankfort, suggested that he should make his Viennese début at my concert.

He had improved immensely; somehow his voice always gave rise in me to a sort of exaltation or intoxication which, now, was intensified by its splendid compass, passion and exquisite sweetness.

No wonder that his success in a great ballad by Uhland (which bore no resemblance to the inanities we call ballads in Paris) was instantaneous and, as an encore, he gave a song that drove the audience almost frantic. If only he would learn French what a furore he would make in Paris!

My reception by all in Vienna--even by my fellow-ploughmen, the critics--was most cordial; they treated me as a man and a brother, for which I am heartily grateful.

After my third concert at a grand supper my friends presented me with a silver-gilt baton, and the Emperor sent me eleven hundred francs with the rather odd compliment, “Tell Berlioz I was really amused.”

The rest of my doings, are they not written in the newspapers of the day?

The first thing I did on leaving Vienna for Pesth was to get into trouble with the Danube, which, instead of remaining decently within its banks, chose to overflow and inundate that muddy Slough of Despond by courtesy called the Emperor’s highway. Only with an extra team of horses had we been able to make way even so far, but at midnight I was aroused from my resigned drowsiness by the stoppage of the carriage and the boiling of waters all round.

The driver had gone straight into the river, and dared not stir a step. The water rose steadily.

There was a Hungarian captain in the coupé who had spoken to me once or twice through the little window between us; it was my turn to speak now:

“Captain!”

“Sir?”

“Don’t you think we are going to be drowned?”

“Yes, I do. Have a cigar.”

His calm insolent coolness made me long to smash his head in; in a fury I took his cigar and puffed violently. Still the water rose and the desperate driver turned, and at the risk of spilling us all in the river, climbed up the bank and took us straight-way--into a lake. This time I thought must be the end of all and I called out to the soldier:

“Captain, have you another cigar?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Let me have it quick, for it’s all up with us now!”

But it was not, for an honest country man passing by (where the devil could he have been going in such weather at such a time of night?) extricated us and gave our unhappy Phæton directions whereby we made our way to Pesth. At least it was a big town of which I asked my captain the name.

“Buda,” said he.

“What? In my map the town opposite Pesth is called Ofen. Look.”

“Oh yes, that’s Buda. Ofen is the German name for it.”

“H’m, I see. German maps are as cleverly arranged as French ones; but I think they might give us both names anyway.”

On reaching Pesth I had a little pleasure party all to myself, in accordance with a promise made to myself while soaking in the Danube mud. I took a bath, drank two glasses of Tokay and slept twenty hours--not, however, without visions of boiling waters and lakes of mud. After which I set out on the war-path of concert-promoting, greatly helped by the kindness of Count Raday, superintendent of the National Theatre.

Now the Hungarians are nothing if not patriotic. In every shop window things are ticketed _hony_ (national) and, by the advice of an amateur in Vienna, who had brought me a volume of Hungarian national airs, I chose the Rakoczy March and arranged it as it now stands as finale to the first part of my _Faust_.

No sooner did the rumour spread that I had written _hony_ music than Pesth began to ferment.

How had I treated it? They feared profanation of that idolised melody, which for so many years had made their hearts beat with lust of glory and battle and liberty; all kinds of stories were rife, and at last there came to me M. Horwath, editor of a Hungarian paper--who, unable to curb his curiosity, had gone to inspect my march at the copyist’s.

“I have seen your Rakoczy score,” he said, uneasily.

“Well?”

“Well; I feel horribly nervous about it.”

“Bah! why?”

“Your motif is introduced _piano_, and we are used to hearing it started _fortissimo_.”

“Yes, by the gipsies. Is that all? Don’t be alarmed. You shall have such a forte as you never heard in your life. You can’t have read the score carefully; remember the end is everything.”

All the same, when the day came my throat tightened, as it did in times of great excitement, when this devil of a thing came on. First the trumpets gave out the rhythm, then the flutes and clarinets, with a _pizzicato_ accompaniment of strings--softly outlining the air--the audience remaining calm and judicial. Then, as there came a long _crescendo_, broken by the dull beats of the big drum (as of distant cannon) a strange restless movement was perceptible among them--and, as the orchestra let itself go in a cataclysm of sweeping fury and thunder, they could contain themselves no longer.

Their overcharged souls burst with a tremendous explosion of feeling that raised my hair with terror.

I lost all hope of making the end audible,[22] and in the encore it was no better; hardly could they contain themselves long enough to hear a portion of the coda.

Horwath, in his box, was like one possessed, and I could not resist a smiling glance at him to ask--

“Are you still afraid or are you content with your _forte_?”

It was lucky that this was the end of the programme, for certainly these excitable people would have listened to nothing more.

As I mopped my face in the little room set apart for me, a poorly dressed man slipped quietly in. He threw himself upon me, his eyes full of tears, and stammered out:

“Ah, monsieur--the Hungarian--poor man--not speak French--Forgive, excited--understood your cannon--Yes, big battle--Dogs of Germans!” Striking his chest vehemently--“In heart of me you stay--ah, French--Republican--know to make music of Revolution!”

I cannot describe his frenzy; it was almost sublime.

After that, of course, the Rakoczy ended every concert, and on leaving I had to present the town with my MS.

Later on I sent them a revised version, as some young Hungarians did me the honour to present me with a silver crown of most exquisite workmanship.

When I got back to Vienna, the amateur who had given me the idea of writing the march came to me in comical terror.

“For mercy’s sake,” he begged, “never tell that I gave you the idea. The excitement of it has reached Vienna, and I should get into dreadful trouble if it were known.”

Of course I promised silence, but, as this terrible affair is long since done with, I may now add that he was called---- No, I only wished to frighten him. I won’t tell!

* * * * *

I had not intended to include Prague in my round, but someone sent me the Prague _Musical Gazette_ with three appreciative articles on my _King Lear_ by Dr Ambros. I wrote to thank him and mentioned my doubts of my reception by his fellow-citizens who, I had been told, would hear no one but Mozart. His kind reply swept away my misgivings and made me as eager to go as I had hitherto been the reverse. Of Prague my recollections are golden. I gave six concerts, and at the last, had the great joy of having Liszt to hear my _Romeo and Juliet_.

At the close of the performance as I begged him to be my interpreter in thanking the artists for their devotion and patience in spending three weeks over my works, two or three of them came up to us and spoke to him.

“My office is changed,” he said, turning to me; “these gentlemen request me to convey to you their thanks for the pleasure you have given them and their joy in your pleasure.”

This was indeed a red-letter day for me! There are not many such in my life.

As the music lovers of Vienna had given me a banquet and a silver-gilt baton, those of Prague gave me a supper and a silver cup.

But this same cup poured out such floods of champagne that Liszt, who had made a charming and touching speech in my honour, was shipwrecked therein. At two o’clock in the morning Belloni, his secretary, and I were hard at work in the streets of Prague trying to persuade him to wait till daylight to fight a Bohemian who had drunk more than he had. We were rather anxious about him, as he had to give a concert at noon next day, and at half-past eleven was still asleep. At length he was awakened, jumped into a carriage, walked on to the platform, and played as I verily believe he had never played before. There certainly is a Providence over--pianists.

I cannot express my tender regrets for those good Bohemians.

“O Prague! when shall I see thee again?”

XXX

PARIS--RUSSIA--LONDON

While trailing round Germany in my old post-chaise I composed my _Damnation de Faust_. Each movement is punctuated by memories of the place where it was written. For instance, the Peasant’s Dance was written by the light of a shop gas-jet one night when I had lost myself in Pesth, and I got up in the middle of the night in Prague to write the song of the angelic choir.

Thinking that my foreign tour might have enhanced my home reputation, on my return to Paris I ventured to put it in rehearsal, going to enormous expense for copying and for the hire of the Opera Comique. Fatal reasoning! The indifference of the Parisians to art had increased by leaps and bounds, the weather in November 1846 was vile, and they preferred their warm homes to the unfashionable Opera Comique.

It was twice performed to half empty houses and elicited no more attention than if I had been the least of Conservatoire students. Nothing in all my career has wounded me as this did. The lesson was cruel but useful; I vowed that never again would I trust to the tender mercies of Paris.

I did not keep my vow, for later on I could not resist letting it hear my _Childhood of Christ_, which proved a great success.

[Berlioz does not mention the domestic troubles that added greatly to his dejection. His wife was paralysed and his son Louis, brought up in a divided household, naturally gave him anxiety, as the following letter shows]:

_To_ LOUIS BERLIOZ.

“_October 1846._--Your mother is a little better, but she is still
in bed and unable to speak. As the least agitation would be fatal
to her, do not write to her as you have done to me.

“You talk of being a sailor. Do you wish to leave me? for, once
at sea, God knows when I shall see you again. Were I but free I
would go with you, and we would seek our fortunes in India or some
far-off land, but to travel one must have money, and only in France
can I get my living--such as it is.

“I am speaking to you as if you were grown up. You must think over
what I say and you will understand. But remember that, whatever
happens, I am and always shall be your best and most devoted
friend. It would indeed be sad if, when you came to be twenty years
of age, you found yourself useless both to society and yourself.
Good-bye, dear child. My heartfelt love.”

_Faust_ was my ruin. After two days of unutterable misery I decided to retrieve my fortunes by a tour in Russia, if I could but collect enough money first to pay my debts. Then did my kind friends rally round me and apply healing balm to my wounded spirit.

M. Berlin advanced me a thousand francs from the _Débats_ funds; one friend lent me five hundred, others six or seven; M. Friedland, a young German I had met in Prague, twelve hundred, and Hetzel a thousand.

So, helped on all sides, I was able, with a clear conscience, to leave for Russia on the 14th February 1847, feeling that few men have been so blessed as I in the devoted generosity and kind-heartedness of my single-minded friends.

The time for concert-giving in Russia is Lent--March--as then the theatres are all closed. The cold was intense, and during my whole fortnight’s journey I never lost sight of the snow, and made only one short stop in Berlin to beg a letter of introduction to the Empress of Russia from her brother, the King of Prussia, which, with his invariable kindness, he sent me at once.

Before leaving Paris, Balzac said to me:

“Be sure at Tilsit to hunt up the post-master, M. Nernst. He is a clever, well-read man and may be useful to you.”

So at Tilsit I walked into his office and there found a big man perched on a high stool.

“M. Nernst?” I said, taking off my hat.

“Yes, monsieur; to whom have I the honour of speaking?”

“To Hector Berlioz.”

“No! not really?” He bounced off his stool and landed before me, cap in hand.

How well I remember my poor father’s happy pride in this story! “Not really?” he would repeat, and his laughter would ring out again and again.

We had a cordial meeting-ground in our mutual friendship with Balzac, and after some hours’ rest I set out, warmed and comforted, in a horrible iron sledge wherein I endured a martyrdom till, four days later, I reached St Petersburg.

Hardly had I shaken off the traces of my journey when M. Lenz, an old acquaintance, came to take me to Count Michael Wielhorski, from whom I received a most flattering welcome. He and his brother, by their love of art, their great connections and immense fortune, have made their palace a sort of little Ministry of Fine Arts.

By them I was introduced to Romberg, General Guédéonoff, superintendent of the Imperial theatres, and General Lwoff, aide-de-camp to the Emperor, a composer of rare talent.

Not to go into too many details, my visits both to St Petersburg and Moscow were the greatest success financially as well as artistically. My first concert (at which I was summoned, hot and dishevelled with my exertions, to the box of the Emperor, who was most gracious) made eighteen thousand francs; the expenses were six thousand, the balance was mine.

I could not resist murmuring, as I turned to the south-west, “Ah, dear Parisians!”

I must just recall one of my red-letter days--the performance of _Romeo and Juliet_ in St Petersburg.

No wretched bargaining, no limitation of rehearsals here!

I asked General Guédéonoff:

“How many rehearsals can your Excellency allow me?”

“How many? Why! as many as you want. They will rehearse until you are satisfied.”

And they did; consequently it was royally, imperially, organised and performed.

The vast theatre was full; diamonds, uniforms, helmets shone and glittered everywhere. I, too, was in good form, and conducted without a single mistake--a thing that, in those days, did not happen often.

I was recalled more times than I could count, but I must own that I paid small heed to the public, the divine Shakespearean poem that I myself had made affected me so deeply that, the moment I was free, I fled to a quiet room in the theatre, where my dear, good Ernst found me in floods of tears.

“Ah! nerves!” said he, “I know too well what it is.”

And, holding my head, he let me sob like a hysterical girl for a quarter of an hour.

Despite its warm reception, I doubt that my symphony was rather over the heads of the audience, therefore, when it was to be repeated, on the advice of the cashier of the theatre, I added two scenes from _Faust_.

I heard of a funny incident at this second performance. One lady present sat and was bored with most exemplary patience; she would not have it thought that she could not understand this feast of music. Proud of having stayed to the end, she said, as she left her box:

“Yes, it is a tremendous thing, but quite intelligible. In that grand introduction I could absolutely _see Romeo driving up in his gig_!!!”

I spoke of Ernst just now--great artist and noble friend. He has been compared to Chopin--a comparison both true and false.

Chopin could never bear the restraints of time, and, I think, carried his independence too far; he simply _could not_ play in time. Ernst, while employing _rubato_, kept it within artistic limits, retaining always a dignified sway over his own caprices.

In Chopin’s compositions all the interest centres in the piano, his orchestral concerto accompaniments are cold and practically useless. Ernst is distinguished by quite the opposite--his concerted music is not only brilliant for the solo instrument, but the symphonic interest is thoroughly grateful and sustained.

Even Beethoven allowed the orchestra to overpower the soloist, and, to my mind, the perfect system is that adopted by Ernst, Vieuxtemps and Liszt.

Chopin was the delicate refined virtuoso of small gatherings, of groups of intimate friends. Ernst was master of crowds; he loved them, and, like Liszt, was at his very best with two thousand hearers to conquer.

* * * * *

The Great Feast being over, there was nothing to keep me in St Petersburg, which, however, I left with great regret.

Passing through Riga, I thought I would give a concert. The receipts hardly covered the expenses (I think I was twelve francs to the good), but it procured me the friendship of some pleasant artists and amateurs, amongst them the post-master, who turned out to be a constant reader of my newspaper articles. He looked me dubiously up and down, and said:

“You don’t _look_ a firebrand, but from your articles I should have expected quite a different sort of man, for, devil take me! you write with a dagger, not a pen!”

The King of Prussia wishing to hear my _Faust_, I arranged to stay ten days in Berlin. The Opera House was placed at my disposal, and I was promised half the gross receipts. The orchestra and choruses were capital, but I cannot say as much for the soloists, who were feeble in the extreme. The King of Thule ballad was hissed, but whether this was due to me or to the singer I cannot say--probably both--for the stalls were filled with a malicious crowd who objected to a Frenchman having the audacity to set to music a German classic.

However, by the time we got to the _Danse des Sylphes_ I was in a bad temper and refused the encore they gave it.

The royalties were apparently satisfied; the Princess of Prussia said many nice things and the King sent me the Red Eagle by Meyerbeer and invited me to dinner at Sans Souci. I met with a cordial reception, gave him news of his sister in Russia and finally ventured to say after dinner was over: “Ah, sire, you are the true king of artists. Without you could Spontini and Meyerbeer have gained a hearing? Was it not at your suggestion that Mendelssohn composed his _Antigone_ music? Did not you commission him to write the _Midsummer Night’s Dream_? Does not your known love of art incite us all to do our best?”

“Well, perhaps so,” he answered, “but there’s no need to say so much about it.”

But it is true. Now there are two other sovereigns who share his interest--the Grand Duke of Saxe-Weimar and the blind young King of Hanover.

* * * * *

On returning to France I took my boy to see his relations at La Côte Saint-André. Poor Louis! how happy he was; petted by relations and old servants and wandering about the fields, his little hand thrust in mine.

In a letter I had yesterday he says that that fortnight was the happiest of his life. And now he is at the blockade of the Baltic, on the eve of a naval battle--that hell upon the sea! The mere thought of it maddens me; yet he chose it himself--this noble profession. But we did not expect war then.

Dear noble boy! at this minute they may be bombarding Bomarsund--it will not bear thinking of, I must turn to other things--I can write no more.

* * * * *

From Paris and its usual weary round of jealousy and intrigue, it was a comfort to turn to London, whence I received the offer of an engagement to conduct the grand English Opera for Jullien. In his usual rôle of madman he got together orchestra, chorus, principals and theatre, merely forgetting a repertoire. To cover expenses he would have had to take ten thousand francs a night and this he expected to net out of an English version of _Lucia di Lammermoor_!

_To_ TAJAN ROGÉ of St Petersburg.

“LONDON, _November 1847_.--Dear Rogé,--Your letter should
have been answered sooner had it not been for the thousand and one
worries that overwhelmed me the minute I set foot in Paris.

“You can have no idea of my existence in that infernal city that
thinks itself the home of Art.

“Thank heaven I have escaped to England and am, financially, more
independent than I dared to hope.

“Jullien, the manager here, is a most intrepid spirit and seems to
understand English people; he has made his fortune and is going
to make mine, he says. I let him have his own way since he does
nothing unworthy of art and good taste--but I have my doubts.

“I have come _alone_ to London; you may guess my reasons. I badly
needed a little freedom which, so far, I have never been able to
get. Not one _coup d’état_ but a whole series was necessary before
I succeeded in shaking off my bonds. Yet now, although I am so busy
with rehearsals, my loneliness seems very odd.

“Since I am in a confidential mood, will you believe that I had
a queer little love affair in St Petersburg with a girl--now
don’t laugh like a full orchestra in C major! It was poetic,
heart-rending, and perfectly innocent.

“Oh, our walks! oh, the tears I shed when, like Faust’s Marguerite,
she said: ‘What can you see in me--a poor girl so far beneath you?’
I thought I should die of despair when I left St Petersburg, and
was really ill when I found no letter from her in Berlin. She _did_
promise to write, probably by now she is married.

“I can picture it all again--the Neva banks, the setting sun. In a
maze of passion I pressed her hand to my heart, and sang her the
Love Song from _Romeo_.

“Ah me! not two lines since I left her.

“Good-bye; you at least will write to me.”

_To_ AUGUSTE MOREL.

“76 HARLEY STREET, LONDON, _31st November 1847_.--Jullien
asks me confidentially to get your report on the success of Verdi’s
new opera.[23] We begin next week with the _Bride of Lammermoor_,
which can hardly help going well with Madame Gras and Reeves. He
has a beautiful voice, and sings as well as this awful English
language will allow.

“I had a warm reception at one of Jullien’s concerts, but shall not
begin my own until January.

“Your friend, M. Grimblot, has given me the _entrée_ to his club,
but heaven only knows what amusement is to be found in an English
club. Macready gave a magnificent dinner in my honour last week;
he is charming and most unassuming at home, though they say he is
terrible at rehearsal. I have seen him in a new tragedy, _Philip
van Artevelde_; he is grand, and has mounted the piece splendidly.

“No one here understands the management and grouping of a crowd as
he does. It is masterly.”

* * * * *

“_8th December._--The opening of our season was a success. Madame
Gras and Reeves were recalled frantically four or five times, and
they both deserved it.

“Reeves is a priceless discovery for Jullien; his voice is
exquisite in quality, he is a good musician, has an expressive
face, and plays with judgment.”

* * * * *