Chapter IX: Part 9

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

* * * * *

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

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

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

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

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

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

XXXV

THE TROJANS

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

Said the Princess:

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

As I demurred, she continued:

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Well?”

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

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

Another:

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

“What’s that?”

“_Triomphaux._”

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

“Yes, but it is not much used.”

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

“Well, people will certainly laugh.”

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

A third:

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

“And why not?”

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

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

Number four:

“Old fellow, do something to please me!”

“What is it now?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

* * * * *

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Monsieur, the orchestra awaits you.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

But I must go back to _Beatrice_.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Ah! how happy am I when my audience weeps!

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

So much the better! Could I but live a hundred and forty years my musical life would become distinctly interesting.

* * * * *

I had married again--_it was my duty_, and after eight years my wife died suddenly of heart disease. Some time after her burial in the great cemetery at Montmartre, my dear friend, Edouard Alexandre (the organ builder, whose goodness to me has been unbounded), thinking her grave too humble, made me a present of a plot of ground _in perpetuity_. There a vault was built and I was obliged to be present at the re-interment. It was a heart-rending scene and quite broke me down; I seemed to have touched the lowest depths of misery, but this was nothing to what followed soon after.

I was officially notified that the small cemetery at Montmartre, where Henriette lay, was to be closed and that I must remove her dear body. I gave the necessary orders and one gloomy morning set out alone for the deserted burial-ground. A municipal officer awaited me and as I came up a sexton jumped down into the open grave. The ten years buried coffin was still intact with the exception of the cover, decayed by damp, and the man, instead of lifting it to the surface, pulled at the rotten boards, which tearing asunder with a hideous noise, left the remains exposed.

Stooping, he took in his hands that fleshless head, discrowned and gaunt, the head of poor Ophelia and placed it in the new coffin lying on the brink of the grave--alas! alas! Again he stooped and raised the headless trunk, a black repulsive mass in its discoloured shroud--it fell with a dull, hopeless sound into its place. The officer a few paces off, stood watching. Seeing me leaning against a cypress tree he cried:

“Come nearer, M. Berlioz, come nearer.”

And, to add a grotesque weirdness to this horrible spectacle he added, misusing a word:

“Ah, poor _inhumanity_!”

In a few moments we followed the hearse down the hill to the great cemetery, where the new vault yawned before us. Henriette was laid within and there those dear dead women await me.

* * * * *

I am nearly sixty-one; past hope, past visions, past high thoughts; my son is far away; I am alone; my scorn for the dishonesty and imbecility of men, my hatred of their insane malignity are at their height; and every day I say again to Death:

“When thou wilt!”

Why does he tarry?

XXXVI

ESTELLE ONCE MORE

_To_ M. and Mme MASSART.

“PARIS, _August 1864_.--Yes, really and truly! Marshal
Vaillant has written a charming letter to tell me that the Emperor
has appointed us officers of the Legion of Honour[30]--yes, madame,
both you and me. So arrange about changing your ribbon, etc.

“You would not go and dine with the Minister. Sixty of us were
there, including His Excellency’s dog, who drank coffee out of his
master’s cup.

“A great author, M. Mérimée, said to me:

“‘You ought to have been made an
officer long ago, which shows that I am not in the Ministry.’

“You see I am a little better to-day and therefore more idiotic
than usual; I hope this will find you the same.

“Paris is _en fête_ and you are not here! The Villerville beach
must be very dismal, how can you stay on there?

“Massart goes shooting--he kills sea-gulls or perhaps an occasional
sperm-whale--God only knows how you kill time! You have deserted
your piano and I would not mind betting that when you come home you
will hardly be able to play that easiest of scales--B natural major!

“Shall I come and see you? You may safely say ‘yes’ for I shall
not come. Forgive me! I am getting serious again, the pain is
beginning and I most go to bed. Heartiest greetings to you both.”

_To_ A. MOREL.

“_August 1864._--Thank you for your cordial letter. The officer’s
cross and Vaillant’s letter pleased me--both for my friends’ sake
and my enemies’. How _can_ you keep any illusions about music in
France? Everything is dead except stupidity.

“I am almost alone. Louis has gone back to St Nazaire and all my
friends are scattered except Heller, whom I see sometimes. We dine
together at Asnières and are about as lively as owls; I read and
re-read; in the evenings I stroll past the theatres in order to
enjoy the pleasure of not going in. Yesterday I found a comfortable
seat on a tomb in Montmartre cemetery and slept for two hours.

“Sometimes I go and see Madame Erard at Passy, where I am welcomed
with open arms; I relish having no articles to write and being
thoroughly lazy.

“Paris gets daily more beautiful; it is a pleasure to watch her
blossoming out.

“I hear there is to be a mighty festival at Carlsruhe; Liszt has
gone there from Rome and they are going to discourse ear-splitting
music. It is the pow-wow of young Germany presided over by Hans von
Bulow.”

Rarely have I suffered from _ennui_ so terribly as I did during the beginning of September 1864.

My friends were away except Stephen Heller, the delicate wit and learned musician, who has written so much lovely music for the piano and whose gentle melancholy and devotion to the true deities of Art made him to me such a grateful companion. My son was home from Mexico, he, too, was not lively and we often pooled our gloom and dined together.

One day, after dinner at Asnières, we walked beside the river and discussed Shakespeare and Beethoven, my son taking part in the Shakespeare portion, since, unfortunately, he was then unacquainted with Beethoven. We finally agreed that it was worth while living in order to worship the Beautiful, and if we could not annihilate all that is inimical to it we must be content to despise the commonplace and recognise it as little as possible. The sun was setting; we sat on the river-bank opposite the isle of Neuilly, and, as we watched the wayward wheeling of the swallows over the water, I suddenly remembered where I was.

I looked at my son--I thought of his mother.

Once more, in spirit, I lay half asleep in the snow as I had done in that very spot thirty-six years before, during those frenzied wanderings around Paris.

Once again I recalled Hamlet’s cold remark over the Ophelia he loved no longer, “What! the fair Ophelia?”

“Long ago,” I said to my companion, “one winter’s day, I was nearly drowned here trying to cross the Seine on the ice. I had walked aimlessly since early morning----” Louis sighed.

The following week he left me, and a great yearning for Vienne, Grenoble, above all, Meylan, came over me. I wished to see my nieces and--one other woman, if I could get her address.

I left Paris. My brother-in-law, Suat, and his two daughters met me with joy. But my joy was chastened, for on entering their drawing-room the portrait of my dear Adèle--now four years dead--faced me. It was a terrible blow, and my nieces looked on in sorrowful amazement at my grief.

Daily familiarity with the room, its furniture, the portrait, had already softened their loss to them; to me all was fresh.

Dear tender-hearted Adèle! my willing slave, my indulgent guardian. How well I remember one day, after I came from Italy, that it rained in torrents, and I said:

“Adèle, come for a walk.”

“Certainly, dear boy,” she said, promptly; “wait till I get my galoshes.”

“Really,” said my elder sister, “you must be quite crazy to want to paddle about the fields in such weather.”

But, despite mockery and jokes, we took a big umbrella and arm-in-arm walked about six miles without speaking a word. We loved each other.

After spending a peaceful fortnight with my brother-in-law, during which he got me Madame F.’s address in Lyons, I could no longer resist a pilgrimage to St Eynard, such as I had made sixteen years before.

There soared the ancient rock, there stood the small white house ... to-day, her old home; to-morrow, perhaps, Estelle herself! Sixteen years had passed as one night, all was unchanged. The little shady path, the old tower, the leafy vines, the glorious view over the valley. Till then I had kept calm, only murmuring, “Estelle! Estelle! Estelle!” but now, overcome with emotion, I fell prone on my face, hearing with each heart-beat the fatal words:

“Past! Past! Gone for ever!”

I arose, and chipping from the tower a morsel of stone that she perchance may have touched, went on my way.

There is the rock whereon I laid my posy of pink peas--but where are the flowers? Gone, or perhaps only past their flowering stage. Here is the cherry tree. How grown!

I break off a fragment of bark and, passing my arms around the trunk, press it passionately to my breast.

Dear tree, you remember her! You understand!

At the avenue gate I resolved to go up to the house; perhaps the new owners would not be too suspicious of me. In the garden I met an old lady who seemed startled at the sight of a stranger.

“Pardon me, madame,” I stammered, “might I go through your garden--in memory of--old friends?”

“Certainly, monsieur, go where you will.”

Further on a girl was on a ladder gathering pears. I bowed and passed on, pushing my way through the bushes, now so neglected, and cutting a branch of syringa to hide next my heart. As I came to the open door, I paused on the threshold to look in. The maiden of the pear tree, no doubt warned by her mother, came forward and courteously asked me in.

That little room, looking over the wide valley, that _she_ had so proudly shown me when I was twelve years old--the same furniture, the same----I tore my handkerchief with my teeth. The girl watched me uneasily.

“Do not mind me, mademoiselle. All is so strange--I have not--been here for forty-nine years!”

And, bursting into tears, I fled.

What could those ladies have thought of that strange scene, to which they never got a key?

Reader, do I repeat myself? In sooth it is always so; remembrance, regret, a weary soul clutching at the past, fighting despairingly to retain the flying present. Always this useless struggle against time, always this wild desire to realise the impossible, always this frantic thirst for perfect love! How can I help repeating myself? The sea repeats itself; are not all its waves akin?

* * * * *

That night I reached Lyons and spent a sleepless night thinking of my meeting with Madame F.

I decided to go at noon, and to send the following letter to prepare her for her visitor:

“MADAME,--I have just come from Meylan, from my second
pilgrimage to the hallowed haunts of my childhood’s dreams. It has
been even more painful than that of sixteen years ago, after which
I wrote to you at Vif. This time I ask for more; I dare to beg you
to see me. I can control myself; you need fear no transports from a
heart out-worn and crushed by the pressure of cruel Fate. Give me
but a few moments! Let me see you, I implore.

“_23rd September 1864._ HECTOR BERLIOZ.”

I could not wait till noon. At half-past eleven I rang; gave her maid my card and the letter. She was at home. I ought only to have sent up the letter, but I was past knowing what I was doing. Without hesitation she came to meet me. I at once recognised her graceful yet stately air--the step of a goddess. But, ah! how changed her face! Her complexion darkened, her hair silvered.

Yet my heart went out to my idol as though she had been in all the freshness of her youthful beauty.

Holding my note, she led the way to her drawing-room. My emotions choked me, I was dumb; with gentle dignity she began:

“We are old acquaintances, M. Berlioz----” Silence.

“We were but children then----” Still silence.

Feeble as the cry of a drowning man came my halting voice:

“My letter--madame--explains this visit; would you but read it----”

She opened and read it, then laid it on the chimney-piece.

“Then you have been in Meylan; by chance, no doubt?”

“Oh, madame, can you believe it needed chance to take me there? For how long had I not yearned to see it once more?”

Again silence.

“Your life has been a stirring one, M. Berlioz.”

“How do you know, madame?”

“I have read your biography--by Méry, I think. I bought it some years ago.”

“Pray, do not think that my friend Méry, an artist and a clever man, is guilty of such a tissue of fables and nonsense as that! I believe I can guess the real author. But I shall soon have a true biography ready, one I have written myself.”

“And you write so well!”

“Nay, madame, I do not mean to praise the style, but simply to say that at least it will be true. In it, without naming you, I have been able to tell all my feeling for you without restraint.”

Silence.

“I have also heard of you,” went on Madame F., “from a friend of yours who married my husband’s niece.”

“Yes, it is he whom I asked to tell me the fate of a letter I wrote you sixteen years ago. I longed to know whether you received it. I never saw him again, and now he is dead.”

Silence.

“My life has been very quiet, very sad. I lost some of my children, and my husband died while the others were very young. I did my best alone to bring them up well.”

Silence.

“I am indeed grateful, M. Berlioz, for the kind thoughts you have kept of me.”

At her gentle words my heart beat yet more violently.

With hungry eyes I gazed and gazed, clothing her once more in the beauty of long past days. At length I said:

“Madame, give me your hand.”

Pressing it to my lips, my heart turned to water within me, the world sank away, a long and blessed silence brooded over us.

“Dare I hope,” I murmured, “that I may write to you? That, at long distant intervals, I may even see you?”

“Oh, certainly; but I am leaving Lyons soon to live with my son who, after his marriage, is to settle in Geneva.”

I rose, not daring to stay longer. She came with me to the door, saying, “Good-bye, M. Berlioz, good-bye. I am more grateful than I can tell you for your long and sweet memory of me.”

Once more I bent over her hand, pressing it to my burning forehead, then tore myself away but only to wander, aimlessly and feverishly, near her dwelling.

As I watched the swirling Rhone rush under the Pont Morand, M. Strakosch, brother-in-law of Adelina Patti, came up to me.

“You!” he cried, “Good-luck! Adelina will be so glad to see you. She is singing to-morrow in the _Barbiere_; will you have a box?”

“Many thanks, I may be leaving this evening.”

“Well, anyway come to dinner with us to-day. You know how much pleasure it gives us.”

“I dare not promise--It depends--I am not very well--Where are you staying?”

“Grand Hotel.”

“So am I. Well, if I am not too unsociable this evening I will come. But don’t wait.”

I suddenly thought of an excuse to see Madame F. once more. If she would go to the theatre I would stay also, if she would allow me the honour of escorting her. If she would not I would leave at once.

I hurried round to her house. She was out but I left a message with her maid and then went off to pass a day of torturing uncertainty. Hour after hour went by and no answer came, time after time I returned to find the house shut up and to get no answer to my ring.

Could it be that she had told her people not to admit me?

What would become of me! Where should I go! What do! There seemed no refuge for me but the Rhone!

Finally in one last despairing attempt I heard ladies’ voices above me on the stairs and saw her coming down, a note in her hand.

“Oh, M. Berlioz, I am so sorry I have only just got your message and here is my answer. Unfortunately I shall be away from home to-morrow; a thousand pardons for the inconvenience I have caused you.”

She was putting the letter in her pocket when I cried:

“Oh, please let me have it!”

“It is hardly worth while----”

“I beg of you, since it was meant for me.”

She gave it me and for the first time I saw her writing.

“Then I shall see you no more?”

“Not if you leave to-night. May your journey be pleasant.”

Pressing my hand, she and her two friends passed on, leaving me--can it be believed?--almost happy.

I had seen, had spoken to her again, I had a letter from her in which she sent me her _kindest regards_.

With my unhoped-for treasure I went back to the hotel to dine with Mademoiselle Patti.

As I entered her _salon_ the charming diva clapped her hands joyously and danced up to me, holding up her lovely forehead for my accustomed kiss.

During dinner she spoilt me with her dainty coaxing attentions.

“There is something wrong with you,” she said, “what are you thinking of? I can’t have you miserable.”

They came with me to the station, she, with a friend and Strakosch, and they were allowed to go on to the platform. Adelina, dear child, clung to me until the signal was given, then the winsome creature flung both arms round my neck and kissed me, crying gaily:

“Good-bye, good-bye just for a week. We shall be in Paris on Tuesday and you must come and see us on Thursday.”

Why could I not claim such affection from Madame F. and mere politeness from Mademoiselle Patti?

Adelina was like a brilliant, diamond-eyed humming-bird fluttering round me; I was enchanted but not touched. Though I liked her greatly, I did not _love_ her.

My soul was given to that old, sad, unsought after woman, hers it has always been and will be to my dying day.

Balzac and even Shakespeare--master painters of passions--knew nothing of love like this. Tom Moore alone has imagined and voiced it in--

“Believe me if all those endearing young charms.”

How often, through that long night journey, did I repeat:

“Idiot! why did you leave? You might have seen her again to-morrow.” True, but the fear of being troublesome restrained me and what could I have done in Lyons during the hours we were apart? it would have been but torture.

After a few miserable days of indecision in Paris I wrote the following letter, which shows my deplorable state and her beautiful calm.

How much worse off am I now that I cannot even write to her! To enjoy that romantic friendship to the end would have been too great a blessing. Wounded, torn, alone, unsatisfied must I totter to my grave!

“PARIS, _27th September 1864_.--Madame! A thousand
blessings on you for your gentle reception of me! Few women could
have done as much; yet since our meeting, I suffer most cruelly. It
is useless to repeat to myself that you could not have done more
than you have; my wounded heart bleeds on unstaunched. I ask, why?
why? and my only answer is: because I saw you so little; because I
said but a tithe of all I wished; because we parted as if for ever.

“Yet I held your hand, I pressed it to my lips--to my forehead and
kept back my tears as I had promised.

“And now the inexorable thirst for another word from you has
conquered me; in pity grant it!

“Think! for forty-five years I have loved you; you are my
childhood’s dream that has weathered all the storms of my most
stormy life. It _must_ be true--this love of a life-time--could it,
else, master me as it still does?

“Do not take me for an eccentric, a plaything of my own
imagination; I am but a man of intense sensibility, of eternal
constancy and of overwhelmingly strong affections. I loved you, I
love you still, I shall always love you, although I am sixty-one
and for me the world has no more illusions.

“Grant me, I pray you, not as a nurse, from a sense of duty to her
sick patient, but as a noble woman stooping to heal wounds she has
unwittingly given--grant me those three things that, alone, can
give me peace: permission to write sometimes, your undertaking to
reply and a promise that once a year, at least, you will allow me
to visit you.

“If I called without your permission I might arrive at the wrong
time, therefore I shall not venture near you unless you say: ‘Come.’

“Surely there is nothing strange or wrong in this? Could there be
a purer or more beautiful bond? Who shall say us nay? Still, I
must own that it would be painful to meet you only amongst others,
therefore if you bid me come it will be that we may talk as we did
last Friday when, so deeply was I moved, that I could not savour
the sweet sad charm by reason of my terror lest emotion should get
beyond control. Oh, madame! madame! I have but one end in life--to
gain your affection!

“Give me but leave to try! I will be so humble, so restrained;
my letters shall be as infrequent as you wish lest they become a
burden to you; five lines only from you will suffice me. My visits
will be but rare; yet, if our thoughts may meet, I shall feel
that--after these long and dreary years during which I have been
nothing to you--I may in time become your friend. Friends with such
devotion as mine are not too often found. I will encircle you with
love so sweet, so tender, with affection so compounded of all that
is simplest in a child and all that is best and grandest in a man
that, surely, in time you will feel its charm and turn to me one
day, saying:

“I am in very deed your friend.”

“Adieu, madame, once more I read your note of the 23rd with its
assurance of your _sentiments affectueux_. Surely this is no mere
formality? Tell me truly--truly!--Yours to eternity,

HECTOR BERLIOZ.”

“_P.S._--I send you three books; perhaps you will glance at them
in your leisure moments. Do you see the author’s device to make you
take a little interest in him?”

MADAME F.’S _Answer_.

“LYONS, _29th September 1864_.

“MONSIEUR,--I should wrong both you and myself did I not
reply at once to your dream of our future friendship; believe me, I
speak from my heart.

“I am an old woman (remember I am six years your senior), worn and
withered by bodily pain and mental anguish, with all my earthly
illusions swept away.

“Since the fatal day, twenty years ago, that I lost my best friend,
I have said good-bye to worldly pleasures, and have found my sole
consolation in a few old friends and in my children.

“In this absolute calm, alone, can I find rest, and to upset it
would be burdensome indeed.

“In your letter of the 27th you say you have but one wish--that
I may become your friend. Do you believe, monsieur, that this
could possibly be? I hardly know you, I have seen you but once in
forty-nine years; how can I understand your tastes, your character,
your capacities--all those hundred and one points upon which,
alone, friendship can be based?

“With two people of like affinities, sympathy may be born and grow
into friendship, but, far apart as we are, no correspondence could
bring about what you desire.

“Besides, I must confess that I am most lazy about letters; my
mind is as torpid as my fingers. I could not, therefore, promise
to write regularly, for the promise would certainly not be kept.
Still, if you feel a certain pleasure in writing, I will read your
letters, although you must not expect speedy replies.

“Neither can I promise to receive you alone. At Geneva, in the
house of my son and his wife, it would be impossible for me to
arrange matters as you wish.

“I tell you all this with perfect frankness, for I feel so strongly
that, as grey hairs come, dreams must be thrust aside--such
friendships belong to the happy days of youth, not to the
disenchantments of old age.

“My future is so short; why indulge in a dream that must fade so
quickly? Why create these vain regrets?

“In what I say, monsieur, do not think that I wish to wound you, to
belittle your remembrance of the past. I respect it, and am greatly
touched.

“You are still young at heart, and I am old and good for nothing
but to keep a warm place for you in my memory. In your triumphs I
shall always take a cordial interest.

“Again, monsieur, I send you my affectionate regards.

ESTELLE F----.”

“I have received the books you so kindly sent. A thousand thanks.”

_Second Letter._

“PARIS, _2nd October 1864_.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

HECTOR BERLIOZ.”

MADAME F.’S _Second Letter_.

“LYONS, _14th October 1864_.

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

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

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

_Third Letter._

“_15th October 1864._

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

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

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

“Ah, how good you are!

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

HECTOR BERLIOZ.”

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

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

HECTOR BERLIOZ.”

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

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

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

“M. ET MME CHARLES F----.”

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

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

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

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

“Oh!----”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“GENEVA, _16th December 1864_.

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

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

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

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

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

To which I replied:

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

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

“She started off at once to see the mother.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“We love each other dearly.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Madame Charton will give me a box.

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

H. B.”

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

Some time later she wrote:

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

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

She sent me her portrait! My dear lady!

And here I stop.

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

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

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

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

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

* * * * *

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

They are the twin wings of the soul.

* * * * *

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

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

* * * * *

_1st January 1865._

* * * * *

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

XXXVII

THE AFTERGLOW

_To_ HUMBERT FERRAND.

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