XXII

NEWSPAPER BONDAGE

To pay my wife’s debts, I had to start benefit-mongering. My friends rallied round me—amongst them Alexandre Dumas, who was all his life my most devoted helper—and after untold annoyances we arranged a theatrical performance, followed by a concert at the Théâtre Italien.

The programme was Dumas’ Antony, played by Firmin and Madame Dorval, followed by the fourth act of Hamlet, by my wife and some English amateurs; then a concert consisting of my Symphonie Fantastique, Francs-Juges, Sardanapalus, a chorus of Weber and his Concert-Stück, played by Liszt.

If the concert had ever come off entirely it would have lasted till one in the morning. But it did not, and for the sake of young musicians I must tell what happened.

Not being versed in the manners and customs of theatrical musicians, I arranged with the manager to take his theatre and orchestra, adding to the latter some players from the Opera, an impossibly dangerous combination, since the theatre employés were bound by contract to take part gratuitously in concerts in their own house, and, therefore, naturally look upon them as a burden. By engaging paid artists, I simply added to their grievance, and they determined to be revenged.

Then, my wife and I being equally ignorant of the petty intrigues of the theatrical world we took no precautions to insure her success. We never even sent a ticket to the claque, and Madame Dorval, believing Henriette’s triumph secured, of course took measures to arrange for her own. Besides, she played splendidly, so it was no wonder she was applauded and recalled.

The fourth act of Hamlet, separated from its context, was incomprehensible to French people and fell absolutely flat. They even noticed (although her talent and grace were as great as ever) how difficult my poor wife found it to raise herself from her kneeling position by her father’s bier, by resting one hand on the stage. Gone was her magnetic power to thrill her audience, and, at the fall of the curtain, those who had idolised her did not even recall her once! It was heart-breaking. My poor Ophelia, the twilight had indeed crept on!

As to the concert, the Francs-Juges was poorly played but well received; the Concert-Stück, played by Liszt with the passionate impetuosity he always put into it, created a furore, and I, carried away by enthusiasm, was idiotic enough to embrace him on the stage, a piece of stupidity fortunately condoned by the audience.

From then things went badly, and by the time we arrived at the symphony not only were my pulses beating like sledge-hammers, but it was very late indeed. I knew nothing of the rule of the Théâtre Italien, that its musicians need not play after midnight, and when, after Weber’s Chorus, I turned to review my orchestra before raising my baton, I found that it consisted of five violins, two violas, four ’cellos, and a trombone, all the others having slipped quietly away.

In my consternation I could not think what to do. The audience did not seem inclined to leave and loudly called for the symphony, one voice in the gallery shouting, “Give us the Marche au Supplice!”

“How can I,” cried I, “perform such a thing with five violins? Is it my fault that the orchestra has disappeared?”

I was crimson with rage and shame.

With disappointed murmurs the people melted away. Of course my enemies announced that my music “drove musicians out of the place.”

That miserable evening brought in seven thousand francs, which went into the gulf of my wife’s debts without, alas! filling it up. That was only done after years of struggle and privation.

I longed to give Henriette a splendid revenge, but there were no English actors in Paris to help her with a complete play, and we both saw that mutilated Shakespeare was worse than useless. I was, therefore, obliged to content myself with taking vengeance for the malicious reports about my music, and, with Henriette’s full approval, I arranged for a concert of my own works at the Conservatoire.

It was a terrible risk for a penniless man, but here, as ever, my wife shewed herself the courageous opponent of half-measures and steadfastly determined to face the chance of positive penury.

The concert, for which I engaged the very best artists, amongst whom were many of my friends, was a triumphant success. I was vindicated.

My musicians (none of whom came from the Italien) beamed with joy, and, to crown all, when the audience had dispersed I found waiting for me a man with long black hair, piercing eyes, and wasted form—genius-haunted, a colossus among giants—whom I had never seen before, yet who stirred within me a strange emotion.

Catching my hand, he poured forth a flood of burning praise and appreciation that fired my heart and head.

It was Paganini.

This was on the 22nd December 1833.

Thus began my friendship with that great artist to whom I owe so much and whose generosity towards me has given rise to such absurd and wicked reports. Some weeks later he said:

“I have a beautiful Strad. viola which I long to play in public. Will you write me a solo for it? I could not trust anyone but you.”

“To do that one ought to play the viola,” I objected. “You alone could do it satisfactorily.”

But he insisted:

“I am too ill to compose; it would be useless to try. You will do it properly.”

So to please him I tried to write a viola solo with orchestral accompaniment, feeling sure that his power would enable him to dominate the orchestra. It seemed to me an entirely new idea, and I burned to carry it through. However, he called soon after and asked to see a sketch of his part.

“This won’t do,” he said, looking at the pauses, “there is too much silence. I must be playing all the time.”

“Did I not tell you so?” I answered. “What you want is a viola concerto, and you are the only one who can write it.”

He seemed disappointed and dropped the subject; a few days later, suffering from the throat trouble of which he afterwards died, he left for Nice and did not come back for three years.

Still ruminating over my idea, I wove round the viola solo a series of scenes, drawn from my memories of wanderings in the Abruzzi, which I called Childe Harold, as there seemed to me about the whole symphony a poetic melancholy worthy of Byron’s hero. It was first performed at my concert, 23rd November 1834, but Girard, the conductor, made a terrible hash of the Pilgrim’s March. However, being doubtful of my own powers, I still allowed him to direct my concerts until, after the fourth performance of Harold, seeing that he would not take it at the proper tempo, I assumed command myself, and never but once after that broke my rule of conducting my own compositions.

We shall see how much cause I had to regret that one exception.

To Humbert Ferrand.

XXIII

THE REQUIEM

In 1836 M. de Gasparin, Minister of the Interior, feeling that religious music should be better supported, allocated, yearly, a sum of 3000 francs to be given to a French composer, chosen by the Minister, for either a mass or an oratorio; his idea being also to have it executed at the expense of the Government.

“I shall begin with Berlioz,” he said, “I am sure he could write a good Requiem.”

A friend of M. de Gasparin’s son told me this. My surprise was only equalled by my delight, but, to make sure, I asked an audience of M. de Gasparin.

“It is quite true,” he said, “I am going out of office, and this is my last bequest. You have, of course, received the official notification.”

“No, monsieur; it was by a mere chance that I heard of your kind intentions towards me.”

“What! you ought to have had it a week ago. It must be an official oversight; I will look into it.”

But nothing happened, and I finally spoke to the Minister’s son, who told me that there was an intrigue on foot to put off my commission until his father’s retirement, after which the Director of Fine Arts—who had no love for me, but whom I need not name since he is dead—hoped that it would be shelved.

This Monsieur X. was a Rossinist. One day I heard him giving his opinion of composers, ancient and modern, and rejecting them all, except Beethoven, whom he forgot. Suddenly he bethought him and said:

“Let’s see. I believe there is another—a German—what is his name? They play his symphonies at the Conservatoire. You may know him, Monsieur Berlioz?”

“Beethoven.”

“Ah yes, Beethoven. I believe he has a certain amount of talent.”

I heard that myself. Beethoven not devoid of talent!

M. de Gasparin had no intention of being ignored; therefore, finding that nothing had been done, he sent for M. X. and ordered him sternly to make out my appointment at once.

Naturally this snub did not increase M. X.’s friendly feeling towards me but, armed with my decree, I set to work with the greatest ardour.

I had so long ached to try my hand at a Requiem that I flung myself into it body and soul. My head seemed bursting with the ferment of ideas, and I actually had to invent a sort of musical short-hand to get on fast enough.

All composers know the bitter despair of losing beautiful ideas through want of time to jot them down.

In spite of the rapidity with which I wrote, I afterwards made but few corrections.

Is it not strange that, during that volcanic time, I should twice over have dreamed that I was sitting in the Meylan garden, under a beautiful weeping acacia, alone. Estelle was not there, and I kept asking:

“Where is she? Where is she?”

Who can explain it? Only those who recognise the affinity of the mysteries of the human heart with those of the magnet.

Here, briefly, is a list of the miseries I endured over that Requiem.

It was arranged that it should be performed at the memorial service held every July for the victims of the Revolution of 1830. I, consequently, had the parts copied, and was beginning rehearsals, when I was told to stop, as the service was to be held without music.

Of course the new Minister owed a certain amount to my copyists and chorus (without mentioning myself), yet will it be believed that for five months I had to besiege that department for those few hundred francs? At last, losing all patience, I had a pretty lively quarrel with M. X., and as I left his room the guns of the Invalides proclaimed the fall of Constantine.

Two hours later he sent for me in hot haste. A funeral service was to be held for General Damrémont and the soldiers who had fallen in the siege.

Now mark! This being a military affair, General Bernard had charge of it, and in this way M. X. hoped to get rid of me and also of the necessity of paying his just debts.

Here the drama becomes complicated.

Cherubini, hearing that my Requiem was to be performed, worked himself into a fever, for he considered that his Requiem should have a monopoly of such ceremonies. His rights, his dignity, his genius, all set aside in favour of a hot-headed young heretic!! His friends, headed by Halévy, started a cabal to oust me.

Being one morning in the Débats office, I saw Halévy come in. Now M. Bertin, the editor, has always been one of my best and kindest friends, and the frigid reception he and his son Armand gave the visitor somewhat disconcerted him—my presence still more so—and he found a change of tactics advisable.

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

M. Berlin’s cold voice broke in:

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Sancta simplicitas! Will it be credited that only by making most unpleasant, almost scandalous, scenes could I, at the end of eight months, get that money?

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

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

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

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

Thus is history written.

Ere long Cherubini played me another charming trick.

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

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

“Yes, monsieur.”

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

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

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

“Then, monsieur, I withdraw.”

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

“Then I won’t withdraw.”

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

“Then what am I to do?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Twenty francs for an idea!”

In the middle of the second I raised my bid.

“Forty francs for an idea!”

The finale commenced.

“Eighty francs for an idea!”

The finale ended and I took myself off, remarking:

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

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

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

A few days after it came out in the Gazette Musicale, the Journal des Débats reproduced it, with a few words of cordial appreciation from the editor.

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

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

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

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

That was the last I heard of it.

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

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

XXIV

FRIENDS IN NEED

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

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

He turned to the orchestra.

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

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

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

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

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

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

But to return to Benvenuto.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Is your opera done?”

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

“But supposing you had time——”

“I would write from dawn till dark.”

“How much would make you independent?”

“Two thousand francs.”

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

“With what? What do you mean?”

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

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

“You needn’t ask when I offer it——”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Then I understood.

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

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

“No, no—not that——”

“What then?”

“Paganini—has sent me—20,000 francs!”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Dear, noble friend! He never saw the ribald nonsense written about my work; how one called my Queen Mab music a badly-oiled squirt, how another—speaking of the Love-Scene, which musicians place in the forefront of my work—said I did not understand Shakespeare!

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

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

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

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

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

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

XXV

BRUSSELS—PARIS OPERA CONCERT