“Paris, 6th August 1839.—I long, dear friend, to tell you all the musical news—at least all that I know. Not that you will find anything new in it. You must be quite blasé with studying Italian modes of thought; they are dreadfully like Parisian ones.
“I know you have not the heart to laugh at them, for you are not of those who find subject for mirth in the insults offered to our Muse—you would rather, at any cost, hide the blemishes upon her snowy robes and the woful rents in her shimmering veil of light.
“So I will content myself with calmly stating facts and retailing news, whereby I can preserve a dignified quiet, and can simply deal out remarks without theorising.
“The day before yesterday, as I was smoking a cigar in the Boulevard des Italiens, Batta caught me by the arm.
“‘What are they up to in London?’ I asked.
“‘Nothing whatever. They despise music and poetry and drama—everything. They go to the Italian Opera because the Queen goes, and that’s all. I feel quite thankful not to be out of pocket and to have been clapped at two or three concerts. That is all the British hospitality I can boast of. Even Artot, in spite of his Philharmonic success, was horribly bored.’
“‘And Doehler?’
“‘Bored also.’
“‘Thalberg?’
“‘Is cultivating the provinces.’
“‘Benedict——’
“‘Encouraged by the success of his first attempt, is writing an English opera.’
“‘Well, I’m off. Come to Hallé’s to-night, we are going to drink and have some music.’
“M. Hallé is a young German pianist—tall, thin, and long-haired—who plays magnificently, and seems to get at music by instinct rather than by notes—that is to say, he is rather like you. Real talent, immense knowledge, perfect execution, are among the gifts we all recognise in him.
“Hallé and Batta played Mendelssohn’s B flat sonata, then we had a chorus over our beer, then Beethoven’s A major sonata, of which the first movement excited us wildly, and the minuet and finale drove us to the verge of lunacy.
“Oh you untiring vagabond! when will you return, once more to preside over our nights of music?
“Between ourselves, you always had too many people at your gatherings—too much talk, too little listening. You, alone, wasted an amount of inspiration that was enough to turn one giddy, without all the rest of the folks in addition.
“Do you remember that evening at Legouvé’s when—the lights put out—you played the C sharp minor sonata, we five lying in the dark on the floor? My tears and Legouvé’s, Schoelcher’s wondering respect, Goubeaux’s astonishment! Ah me! you were indeed sublime that night!
“But to get back to news.
“There is a glorious row toward between our Opera troupe and the Italian; they want to unite them in the Rue Le Pelletier. It will be rather a shock. Lablache against Levasseur, Rubini against Duprez, Tamburini against Dérivis, Grisi against Mdlle. Naudin and the whole lot against the big drum.
“We mean to be there to pick up the dead and the dying. Lots of people find fault with the Opera orchestra, they say they do not keep in tune, that the right-hand side tends to get a quarter-tone higher than the left—which these gentlemen consider most unreasonable——
“‘You seem to suffer in silence,’ one of them said to me the other day.
“‘I? I did not say I suffered at all,’ I replied. ‘First, because I never said a word, and secondly, because....’
“Sometimes when they are at their wit’s end they play Don Giovanni. If Mozart could come back to this world, he would tell them (like Molière’s president) that he would not have it played.
“The other day, Ambroise Thomas, Morel, and I were saying we would give five hundred francs for a good performance of Spontini’s Vestale; that set us off—we know it by heart—and we went on singing it till midnight.
“But we missed you for our accompaniments.
“I am just pouring out news as it comes into my head. Hiller has sent me part of his Romilda from Milan. One of our enemies wished to throw himself off the Vendome Column the other day. He gave the keeper forty francs to let him go up—then changed his mind and walked down again.
“Chopin is still away; they said he was very ill, but there is no truth in it. Dumas has just written an exquisite thing—Mademoiselle de Belle Isle—but that is out of my province. There! no more news.
“My indifferentism does not extend to you and your long absence. Come back soon. It is high time you did, both for us and, I hope, for yourself too. Adieu.”
In 1840 the Government proposed celebrating the tenth anniversary of the Revolution by exceptional ceremonies, and the Minister of the Interior, M. de Remusat, who, like M. de Gasparin, had a soul for music, commissioned me to write a symphony, leaving form and all details entirely to me.
I planned a great symphony, on broad, simple lines, and as it was to be played in the open air where delicate orchestral effects would be lost, I engaged a military band of two hundred men.
Habeneck was anxious to conduct but, remembering the snuff trick, I preferred to do my own conducting.
Most fortunately, I invited a large audience to the final rehearsal, feeling sure that my work could not be properly judged on the day of performance.
And so it proved. On the great Place de la Bastille, ten yards away, you could make out nothing, and to make things worse, the legions of the National Guard marched off right in the middle, to the rattle of fifty kettledrums. That is the way music is always honoured in France at public fêtes, apparently they think it is meant to please—the eye.
Towards the end of this year I made my first musical venture out of France, as M. Snel, of Brussels, asked me to direct some of my works for the Société de la Grande Harmonie in the Belgian capital.
Nothing but a regular coup d’état at home made the execution of this plan possible. On one pretext or another, my wife had always set her face against my leaving Paris, her real reason being a most foolish and unfounded jealousy, for which there was absolutely no cause.
But constant accusations forced me, in time, to justify them and to take advantage of the position with which she credited me.
Smuggling my music out of the house by degrees, I finally departed secretly, leaving a letter of explanation and, accompanied by the lady who has since been my constant travelling companion,[17] I went off to Brussels.
To cut short these sad and sordid details—after many painful scenes, an amicable separation was arranged. I often saw my wife, my affection for her remained unchanged—indeed, the miserable state of her health but made her dearer to me.
This is sufficient to explain my conduct to those who have only known me since that time; I shall not recur to the subject as I am distinctly not writing confessions.
I gave two concerts in Brussels, where opinions were, as usual, divided about me as in Paris. Fétis chose to find fault with my (perfectly correct) harmony, and I was rather tempted to reply to him in one of the papers, but finally decided to stick to my invariable rule to reply to no criticism whatsoever.
This being merely a trial trip, I arranged to spend five or six months on tour in Germany, and therefore returned straight to Paris to give a colossal farewell concert.
I explained my wish to M. Pillet, director of the Opera, who was quite willing to allow me the use of the theatre.
But it was necessary to keep it secret so that Habeneck might not have time to counterplot, as he would hardly look with a favourable eye on anyone who supplanted him at the conductor’s desk.
I, therefore, prepared all my music and engaged my performers without telling them where the concert would be held, and when all was ready I asked M. Pillet to tell Habeneck that the concert was entirely in my hands. But he dared not face his terrible chief, and it fell to my lot to write and inform him of our arrangements.
He received my letter during a rehearsal, read it several times, looked very black, then went down to the office and said that the plan suited him exactly, as he wished to go into the country the day of the concert. Still his disgust was quite evident, and it was shared by a part of his orchestra, who thought to pay court to him by shewing it.
The concert was for the benefit of the Opera, but I was to have five hundred francs for my share and the Opera staff were to get no extra remuneration whatever. Mindful of my experience with the Théâtre Italien, I determined to devote my five hundred francs to the payment of these men, all the more readily that I felt thunder in the air in the form of Habeneck’s savage looks, the numbers of the Charivari (which cut me up tremendously) on the desks, and the constant little confabulations that went on in odd corners.
I engaged six hundred performers from different theatres and from the Conservatoire, and in a week managed to drill them into something like order, how I cannot imagine.
I was on foot, baton in hand, the whole day, going from the Opera to the Théâtre Italien, whence I engaged the chorus; thence to the Opera Comique and to the Conservatoire to superintend different parts, for I dared not relegate a single department to anyone else.
Then, in the foyer of the Opera, I took the stringed instruments from eight till twelve, and the wind from twelve to four. My throat was on fire, my voice gone, my right arm almost paralysed. One day I should have been ill with thirst and fatigue had not a kind chorus-singer had the humanity to bring me a large glass of hot wine.
The players of the Opera made me as much trouble as possible; they learnt that the outside performers were to have twenty francs a piece, so they demanded a like sum.
“Not for the money,” said they, “but for the honour of the Opera.”
“You shall have your twenty francs,” I cried; “but for heaven’s sake go on and let me have a little peace.”
On the day of the grand rehearsal all went fairly well, except the Queen Mab scherzo, which is too dainty to be treated by so large a body of players. Unfortunately I did not think, at the time, of entrusting it to a small band of picked musicians, so was reluctantly obliged to cut it altogether out of the programme.
On the day of the performance I had hoped to keep quiet until the evening, but my friend, Leon Gatayes, came in to tell me that a plot was being hatched by Habeneck’s partizans (who were indignant at his being passed over) to ruin the whole affair. The drum parchments were to be slit, the bows of the double-basses greased, and in the middle of the concert a section of the audience was to shout for the Marseillaise.
After this, needless to say, I did not take much rest. Prowling restlessly round the Opera, I had the good luck to meet Habeneck; I caught him by the arm.
“I hear your musicians are going to play me some tricks. I have my eye on them.”
“Oh, it’s all right,” he answered. “I have talked to them; you need not be afraid.”
“I am not afraid: on the contrary, I am comforting you. You see, if anything happened, it would fall pretty heavily on you. But make your mind easy; they won’t do anything.”
And they did not. My copyist had been all day in the theatre guarding the drum and double-basses, and I myself went round to all the desks to ensure each man having his own part.
Indeed I was made quite ashamed of myself when I got to the Dauverné brothers; one of them looked up and said reproachfully:
“Berlioz, surely you don’t doubt us? Aren’t we decent fellows and your friends?”
I grew quite hot and stopped my investigations, for which, it must be owned, there really was some excuse.
Nothing went wrong and my Requiem produced its due effect, but during the interval, according to rumour, Habeneck’s cabal howled for the Marseillaise. I went to the front of the stage and shouted at the top of my lungs:
“We will not play the Marseillaise; that is not what we are here for,” and peace reigned once more.
Although the receipts were eight thousand five hundred francs, the sum put aside to pay the musicians was not sufficient to fulfil my promises to them, and I had to supplement it by three hundred and fifty out of my own pocket, as the red ink entry in the cashier’s book at the Opera testifies to this day.
Thus I organised the most tremendous concert Paris had ever known, and was three hundred and fifty francs put of pocket for my pains. I was likely to grow rich!
M. Pillet is a gentleman and I never could understand how he allowed it; perhaps the cashier never told him.
I left for Germany a few days later on my pilgrimage. It was hard work truly, but it was at least musical hard work, and I had the untold happiness of being safe away from the intrigues and platitudes of Paris and among sympathetic musical people.
My tour began with trouble; I had intended giving a concert in Brussels, as Madame Nathan-Treillet, the idol of the Bruxellois, had kindly promised to come from Paris purposely to sing for me. But she fell seriously ill, and we knew that not all the symphonies in the world would make up for her absence.
When the catastrophe was announced the Grande Harmonie promptly fainted en bloc, pipes went out as if from want of air, and people dispersed groaning. In vain did I say, “Be calm! There will be no concert; you will be spared the misery of listening to my music. Surely that compensation is not to be despised!” It availed naught. Their eyes wept tears of beer et nolebant consolari because she came not. So my concert went to the devil.
Time passed; I was obliged to go on leaving the poor Belgians to their fate. My anxiety for them, however, soon melted as I embarked on my Rhine journey and went up to Mainz, hoping to be able to arrange a concert there.
I first went to Schott, patriarch of music publishers, who seemed rather as if he belonged to the household of the Sleeping Beauty, his somnolent sentences being interspersed with long silences.
“I don’t think—you hardly will be able—give a concert—there is—no orchestra—no public—no money.”
Not being overburdened with patience, I went straight to the station and off to Frankfort. To add fuel to my fire, the train was asleep too; it “made haste slowly”; it did not go; it dawdled and, particularly that day, made interminable organ pedal-points at each station. But every adagio has an end, and finally I got to Frankfort—a well-built, bright town, very much alive and up to date.
Next day, crossing the square on my way to the theatre, I came up with some young men carrying wind-instruments and asked them—since they evidently belonged to the orchestra—to take my card to Guhr, the chief.
“Ah,” said one, who spoke French, “we are glad to see you. M. Guhr told us you were coming. We have done King Lear twice, and though we cannot offer you your Conservatoire orchestra, perhaps you will not be very displeased with us.”
Guhr appeared, sharp, incisive, with snapping dark eyes and quick gestures; it was easy to see that he would not err on the side of indulgence with his orchestra. He spoke French but not fluently enough for his wishes, so he tumbled over his sentences, which were interlarded with oaths in a thick German accent, with most ludicrous results.
The upshot of his flow of eloquence was that the two Milanollo girls were creating such a furore that no other music would have the slightest chance of success.
He was voluble in excuses and ended:
“What can I do, my dear fellow? These infant prodigies make money; French Vaudevilles make money—I can’t refuse money, can I? But do stay till to-morrow and you shall hear Fidelio with Pischek and Mdlle. Capitaine and you can give me your opinion of them.”
So it was arranged that I should go on to Stuttgart and try my fortunes with Lindpaintner, leaving the Frankfurters to cool down after the fever caused by the charming little sisters, whom I had praised and applauded in Paris but who got sadly in my way in Frankfort.
Fidelio was beautifully sung by Mdlle. Capitaine; she is not a brilliant singer, but of all the women I heard in Germany I like her best in her own style. In a box I espied my old friend, Ferdinand Hiller, and a moment we were back on our student-comrade footing of years before. He is at work on an oratorio The Fall of Jerusalem; I am sorry that I have never been in Frankfort for one of his concerts to hear and judge of his compositions, which I am told are of a very high order.
My first care was to get as much information as I could on the musical resources of Stuttgart, for I found the expenses of carrying so much concerted music about with me something enormous and only wished to take what I might fairly expect to be performed. I finally decided on two symphonies, an overture and some choral pieces, leaving all the rest with that unlucky Guhr, who seemed fated to be bothered with me and my music in some way or other.
I had a letter of introduction to a Dr Schilling, whose title made me shudder. I pictured an aged pedant in spectacles and red wig, armed with a snuff-box and astride his hobbies, fugue and counterpoint, caring for nothing but Bach and Marpurg and hating modern music in general and mine in particular.
So much for preconceived ideas.
Dr Schilling was young, wore no spectacles, had a handsome crop of black hair, smoked, took no snuff, never mentioned fugues or canons and showed no dislike for modern music—not even mine.
He spoke French about as badly as I did German and our intercourse was not precisely on the lines of Herder and Kant. I made out that I could either apply for the loan of the theatre, which would mean freedom from expense and ensure the presence of the King and Court or else could engage the Salle de la Redoute, where I should have everything to manage and which the King never entered.
I sought an interview with Baron von Topenheim, superintendent of the theatre, who most kindly assured me that he would speak to the King that evening:
“But,” he added, “I think I ought to tell you that the acoustic of the theatre is vile and that of the Salle de la Redoute is good.”
I was nonplussed and could only go and see if Lindpaintner would advise me what to do. I do not know how to express my feelings towards him, but at the end of ten minutes we might have been friends of ten years’ standing.
“First,” said he, “do not be deceived as to the musical importance of our town—we have neither money nor public. (I thought of Mainz and father Schott)! But since you are here we certainly cannot let you go without hearing some of your works, about which we are very curious. So you must take the Redoute and as far as players are concerned, if you will only give about eighty francs to their pension fund, they will think it an honour to rehearse and to perform under your baton. Come to-night and hear Freyschütz and I will introduce you and you will see that I am right.”
He was as good as his word and all my fears melted away. Here was a young, fiery, enthusiastic orchestra. I saw that from the way they played Weber.
They were intrepid readers, too, nothing upset, nothing disconcerted them, they never missed a single sign of expression either. I had chosen the Symphonie Fantastique and Francs-Juges and trembled for my syncopations, my four notes against three, my unusual rhythms; but they plunged straight in without a single mistake.
I was astounded, for with two rehearsals the whole thing was done.
It would have been grand had not illness on the day of the concert taken away half my violins and left me with four firsts and four seconds to fight that mass of wind and percussion. It was the more harrowing, in that the King and Court were there in full force; still it was intelligent and sympathetic, and the audience applauded everything warmly except the Pilgrim’s March from Harold, which fell flat. I found it do so again when I separated it from the rest of the symphony, which shows what a mistake it is to divide up some compositions.
After the concert I was congratulated by the King, by Prince Jerome Bonaparte and by Count Niepperg, but I am afraid Lindpaintner, whose approval was more to me than all, hated everything but the overture. I am sure Dr Schilling found it hideous and was quite ashamed of having introduced such a musical free-lance to his quiet town.
However, being Councillor of State to the Prince of Hohenzollern-Hechingen, he wrote and told His Highness of the savage he had in tow, thinking that the said savage would find a more appropriate setting in the wilds of the Black Forest than in civilised Stuttgart.
The savage therefore—receiving a cordial invitation from the Prince’s Privy Councillor, Baron de Billing—and being avid of new sensations, took his way through the snow and the great pine woods to the little town of Hechingen, without in the least troubling about what he should do when he got there.
I never recall this Black Forest journey without a medley of pleasant, sad, sweet and troubled remembrances that strangely stir my heart. The double mourning—white of the snow and black of the trees—spread over the mountains; the cold wind’s dreary moan among the shivering, restless pines; the ceaseless gnawing of sorrow at my heart, grown stronger in this solitude, the bitter cold, then the arrival at Hechingen, bright faces, gracious prince, fêtes, concerts, laughter, promises to meet in Paris, then—good-bye—and once more the darkness and the cold!
Ah! what do I suffer even yet! What demon started me thinking of it? But that is my way—without apparent cause, I am tormented, possessed, just as in certain electric states of the air the leaves rustle without wind.
But back to Hechingen. The ruler of this minute principality was an intellectual young man who seemed to have but two objects in life—to make his people happy and to worship music.
Can one imagine a more perfect existence?
His subjects adored him and music loved him, for he understood her both as poet and musician, and had composed some touching songs.
He had a tiny orchestra, conducted by Täglichsbeck, whom I had met five years earlier in Paris, and who received me with open-hearted kindness.
It was most amusing to see me adapting my big orchestral works to this little band, but, by dint of patience and goodwill all round, we did wonders and gave King Lear, the Pilgrims’ March, the Ball Scene, and other excerpts in really good style.
Still, of course, I could not help longing for wider scope, and when the Prince came to compliment me, I said:
“Ah! I would give two years of my life if Your Highness could hear that with my Conservatoire orchestra.”
“Yes! yes!” he said. “I know that you have an imperial orchestra that calls you ‘Sire,’ while I am but a Highness. I mean to go to Paris and hear it one day—one day.”
After the concert we supped at his villa, and his charming brightness infected us all. Wishing me to hear a trio he had composed for piano, tenor, and ’cello, Täglichsbeck took the piano, the Prince the air, and I, amid laughter and applause, tried to sing the ’cello part. My high A simply brought down the house.
Two days later I returned to Stuttgart.
The snow was melting on the mourning pines, stained was the fair white mantle of the mountains—all was dreary and woe-worn—again at my heart gnawed the worm that dieth not——
The rest is silence.
To Franz Liszt.
“You, my dear Liszt, know nothing of the uncertainties of the wandering musician. You never have a moment’s anxiety as to whether, when you get to a town, there will be a decent orchestra or a theatre ready for you. To parody Louis XIV. you can say:
“‘Orchestra, chorus, conductor are myself.’
“A grand piano and a large hall are the extent of your needs. But a poor travelling composer like myself depends upon a combination most difficult to arrange and at any moment liable to be upset. How much thought, precaution, fatigue it all requires. Yet look at the reward!
“Think of the compensation of playing on an orchestra, of having under one’s hand this vast living instrument!
“You virtuosi are princes and kings by the grace of God, you are born on the steps of the throne; we composers must fight and conquer before we reign. Yet the difficulties and dangers surmounted add brilliance to our victories, and we should perhaps be happier than you—if we always had soldiers.
“But this is a digression.
“At Stuttgart I waited, hardly knowing what plans to make, until a favourable answer came to my letter of enquiry addressed to Weimar. Meanwhile I had another experience of the coldness of Germans towards Beethoven.
“Lindpaintner conducted a magnificent performance of the Leonore overture at the Redoute Society’s concert, which elicited but the faintest applause, and I heard a gentleman say afterwards that he wished they would give Haydn’s symphonies instead of that noisy music without any tune in it!!!
“Really now, we do not own such Philistines as that in Paris!
“I went to Weimar via Carlsruhe (where there was nothing to be done) and Mannheim—a cold, calm, respectable town, where love of music will never keep the inhabitants awake.
“The younger Lachner, a real artist, both modest and talented, is director there; he hurriedly arranged a concert for me, and was deeply grieved because the ineptitude of his trombones forbade our giving the Orgie in Harold.
“Mannheim bored me horribly, and it was an intense relief to get away and breathe freely once more.
“Behold me then again afloat on the Rhine—I meet Guhr, still swearing—I leave him—meet our friend Hiller, who tells me his Fall of Jerusalem is ready—I leave, in company with a magnificent sore throat—sleep on the way—dream frightful things that I will not repeat—reach Weimar, thoroughly ill—Lobe and Chélard try in vain to prop me up—preparations for concert—first rehearsal—I rejoice and am cured.
“There is something broad, cultivated, liberal about the very air of Weimar. Calm, luminous, peaceful, dreamy—how my heart beat as I paced the streets!
“Here is the summer-house of Goethe where the late Grand Duke used to come to take part in the discussions of Schiller, Herder, and Wieland. There, a Latin inscription traced by the author of Faust. Those two attic windows, are they indeed those of Schiller? Was it this humble roof that sheltered the mighty enthusiasm of the author of Don Carlos? Was it right of Goethe, the rich and powerful minister, thus to leave his friend in poverty? I fear me that it was true friendship on the side of Schiller only—Goethe loved himself too well, he lived too long and death was to him a terror.
“Schiller! Schiller! you deserved a less human friend!
“It is one in the morning, with bitter cold and a brilliant moon. I stand entranced before that small dark house; all is silent in this city of the dead.
“Within me surges up that passion of respect, regret, and love for the genius that stretches out a hand from beyond the cold dark grave, and lays a mighty finger on us poor obscure earth wanderers, and upon that humble threshold I kneel, murmuring brokenly, ‘Schiller! Schiller!’
“But I am no nearer the subject of my letter, dear friend; to soothe myself I must think of another dweller in Weimar, the talented but cold Hummel.
“That calms me; I feel better!
“Chélard, as Frenchman, artist, and friend, has done everything possible to help me, and the Baron von Spiegel, the superintendent, has most kindly offered me the theatre and orchestra. He did not add the chorus, which was just as well, for I heard them trying to do Marschner’s Vampire, and a more ghastly collection of squallers I never heard.
“Of the women soloists, too, the less said the better.
“But are there words to describe the bass—Génast? Is he not a true artist, a born tragedian? I wish I could have stayed long enough to hear him in Shakespeare’s King Lear, which they were mounting.
“The orchestra is good, but, to do me special honour, Chélard and Lobe hunted up every available extra instrument in the place; there was no harp to be found, but a good pianist and perfect musician, named Montag, kindly arranged my harp parts and played them on the piano.
“Everyone was eagerly ready to help, and you may imagine the rare and extreme joy of being promptly understood and followed. I will spare you a description of the applause and recalls, the compliments of their Highnesses, and the many new friends who, waiting at the stage door, bore me off and kept me till three o’clock next morning.
“Where, oh where is my modesty that I retail all this? Adieu!”
To Stephen Heller.
“On leaving Weimar, my dear Heller, my easiest plan seemed to be to go to Leipzig, but I hesitated because Felix Mendelssohn was musical dictator there, and, in spite of our Roman days together, we had since followed such divergent lines that I could not be sure of a sympathetic reception. Chélard, however, made me ashamed of my misgivings. I wrote, and Mendelssohn replied so warmly and promptly, bidding me welcome to Leipzig, that I could not resist such an invitation, but set off at once, regretfully leaving Weimar and my new friends.
“My relations with Mendelssohn in Rome had been rather curious. At our first meeting I had expressed a great dislike to the first allegro in my Sardanapalus.
“‘Do you really dislike it?’ he said, eagerly. ‘I am so glad. I was afraid you were pleased with it, and I think it simply horrid.’
“Then we nearly quarrelled next day because I spoke enthusiastically of Gluck. He said disdainfully:
“‘Do you like Gluck?’ as much as to say, ‘How can a music-maker like you appreciate the majesty of Gluck?’
“I took my revenge a few days after by putting on Montfort’s piano a manuscript copy of an air from Telemaco without the author’s name to it. Mendelssohn came, picked it up thinking it was a bit of Italian opera, and began parodying it. I stopped him in assumed astonishment, saying:
“‘Hallo, don’t you like Gluck?’”
“‘Gluck?’”
“‘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—