person; in the second, if you have your reasons for judging
her severely I have mine for believing in her implicitly, and I
understand her better than any one.
“How can you tell what she thinks? What she feels? Because you saw
her gay, and apparently happy, at a concert why should you draw
conclusions adverse to me? If it comes to that, you might have said
the same of me if you had seen me at a family dinner at Grenoble,
with a pretty young cousin on either side of me.
“My letter is brusque, my friend, but you have upset me terribly.
Write by return and tell me what the world says of my marriage.”
“_31st January 1831._--Although my overpowering anxiety still
endures, I can write more calmly to-day. I am still too ill to get
up, and the cold is frightful here.
“Tell me what you mean by this sentence in your last letter: ‘You
wish to make a sacrifice; I fear me sadly that, ere long, you will
be forced to make a most painful one.’ For heaven’s sake never
use ambiguous words to me, above all in connection with _her_. It
tortures me. Tell me frankly what you mean.”
XVII
ITALY
A WILD INTERLUDE
The weather was too severe to cross the Alps, I therefore determined
to out-flank them and go by sea from Marseilles. It was the first time
I had seen the sea and, as some days passed before I could hear of a
boat, I spent most of my time wandering over the rocks near Notre Dame
de la Garde.
After a while I heard of a Sardinian brig bound for Leghorn, and
engaged a passage in her in company with some decent young fellows I
had met in the Cannebière.
The captain would not undertake to feed us, so, reckoning that we
should make Leghorn in three or four days, we laid in provisions for a
week.
In fine weather, few things are more delightful than a Mediterranean
voyage--particularly one’s first. Our first few days were glorious; all
my companions were Italians, and had many stories to tell--some true,
some not, but all interesting. One had fought in Greece with Canaris,
another--a Venetian--had commanded Byron’s yacht, and the tales he told
accorded well with what one might expect of the author of _Lara_.
Time went on, but we got no nearer Leghorn. Each morning, going on
deck, my first question was, “What town is that?” and the eternal
answer was, “Nizza, signor, still Nizza.” I began to think that the
charming town of Nice had some sort of magnetic attraction for our boat.
I found out my mistake when a furious Alpine wind burst down upon
us. The captain, to make up for lost time, crowded on all sail and
the vessel heeled over and drove furiously before the gale. Towards
evening we made the Gulf of Spezzia, and the tramontana increased to
such a pitch that the sailors themselves trembled at the captain’s
foolhardiness. I stood by the Venetian, holding on to a bar and
listening to his maledictions on the captain’s madness, when suddenly a
fresh gust of wind caught the boat and sent her over on her beam-ends,
the captain rolling away into the scuppers.
In a flash the Venetian was at the tiller, shouting orders to the
sailors, who were by this time calling on the Madonna:
“Don’t bother about the Madonna now,” he cried, “get in the sails.”
The sails were reefed, the ship righted, and next day we reached
Leghorn with only one sail, so strong was the wind.
A few hours after, our sailors came to the hotel in a body to
congratulate us on our escape. And, though the poor devils hardly
earned enough to keep body and soul together, nothing would induce them
to take a farthing. It was only by great persuasion that we got them to
share an impromptu meal. My friends had confided to me that they were
on the way to join the insurrection in Modena; they had great hopes of
raising Tuscany and then marching on Rome.
But alas for their young hopes! Two were arrested before reaching
Florence and thrown into dungeons, where they may still lie rotting;
the others, I heard later, did well in Modena, but finally shared the
fate of gallant and ill-starred Menotti.
So ended their sweet dream of liberty.
I had great trouble in getting from Florence to Rome. Frenchmen were
revolutionists and the Pope did not welcome them warmly. The Florentine
authorities refused to _viser_ my passport, and nothing but the
energetic protests of Monsieur Horace Vernet, the director of the Roman
Academy, prevailed on them to let me go.
Still alone, I made my way to Rome. My driver knew no French so I was
reduced to reading the memoirs of the Empress Josephine, as we dawdled
on our road. The country was not interesting; the inns were most
uncomfortable; nothing gave me reason to reverse my decision that Italy
was a horrid country and I most unlucky in being compelled to stay in
it.
But one morning we reached a group of houses called La Storta and, as
he poured out a glass of wine, my _vetturino_ said casually, with a
jerk of his head and thumb:
“There is Rome, signore.”
Strange revulsion of feeling! As I gazed down on the far-off city,
standing in purple majesty in the midst of its vast desolate plain, my
heart swelled with awe and reverence, and suddenly I realised all the
grandeur, all the poetry, all the might of that heart of the world.
I was still lost in dreams of the past when the carriage stopped in
front of the Academy.
The Villa Medici, the home of the students and director of the
_Académie de France_, was built in 1557 by Annibale Lippi, one wing
being added by Michael Angelo. It stands on the side of the Pincian,
overlooking the city; on one side of it is the Pincian Way, on the
other the magnificent gardens designed in Lenôtre’s style, and
opposite, in the midst of the waste fields of the Villa Borghese,
stands Raphael’s house.
Such are the royal quarters that France has munificently provided
for her children. Yet the rooms of the pupils are mostly small,
uncomfortable, and very badly furnished.
The studios of the painters and sculptors are scattered about the
grounds as well as in the palace, and from a little balcony, looking
over the Ursuline gardens, there is a glorious view of the Sabine
range, Monte Cavo and Hannibal’s Camp.
There is a fair library of standard classics, but no modern books
whatever; studiously-minded people may go and kill time there up to
three in the afternoon, for there is really nothing to do. The sole
obligation of the students is, once a year, to send a sample of their
work to the Academy in Paris; for the rest of the time they do exactly
as they please.
The director simply has to see that rules are kept and the whole
establishment well managed; with the inmates’ work he has nothing to do
whatever.
It would be hardly fair that he should; to overlook and advise
twenty-two young men in five different branches of art would hardly be
within one man’s compass.
The Ave Maria was ringing as I entered the portals of the Villa and, as
that was the dinner-hour, I went straight to the refectory. As soon as
I appeared in the doorway there was a hurrah that raised the roof.
“Ho! ho! Berlioz! Oh that blessed head! that fiery mop! that dainty
nose! I say, Jalay, his nose knocks spots out of yours; take a
back-seat, my good man!”
“He can give _you_ points in hair anyway.”
“Ye gods, _what_ a crop!”
“Heigh, Berlioz! how about those infernal side-drums that wouldn’t
start the _Fire_! By Jove! he was in a wax. Good reason, too! I say,
have you forgotten me?”
“I know your face well enough, but your name----”
“He says ‘you.’ Don’t give yourself airs, old boy, we are all ‘thou’
here.”
“Well, what is _thy_ name?”
“Signol.”
“No, it isn’t; it’s _Ros_signol.”[9]
“Lord, what a beastly bad pun!”
“Do let him sit down.”
“Whom? The pun?”
“Get out! Berlioz, of course.”
“I say, Fleury, bring us some punch--real good stuff. We’ll stop this
idiot’s mouth.”
“Now our musical section is complete.”
“Montfort” (the laureate of the year before me), “embrace your comrade.”
“No, he sha’n’t!”
“Yes, he shall!” and they all yelled together.
“Look here; while you others are fighting, he’s eating all the
macaroni. Leave me a bit!”
“Well, embrace him all round and get it done with.”
“Oh, bother! Now it’s going to begin all over again.”
“I say, I’m not going to drink wine when there’s punch.”
“Not much! Break the bottles. Look out, Fleury!”
“Gentlemen! Gentlemen! Don’t break the glasses, please! You will want
them for the punch. You would not like to drink punch out of little
glasses.”
“Perish the thought! You are a man of sense, Fleury. You were only just
in time, though.”
Fleury was the prop of the house; a thoroughly good fellow, who well
deserved the trust of the Academy directors. Nothing ruffled him; he
was so used to our scenes that he kept the aspect of a graven image,
which made it all the funnier for us.
When I had got over my tempestuous reception, I looked round the hall.
On one wall were about fifty portraits of former students, on the other
a series of the most outrageous life-sized caricatures, also of inmates
of the Academy. Unluckily, for want of wall-space, these soon came to
an end.
That evening, after an interview with M. Vernet, I followed my comrades
to the Café Greco--the dirtiest, darkest, dampest hole imaginable. How
it justifies its existence as the artist’s favourite café I cannot
imagine. We smoked abominable cigars and drank coffee that was none the
nicer for being served on dirty little wooden tables, as sticky and
greasy as the walls.
Next day I made Mendelssohn’s acquaintance; but more of this when I
come to write of Germany.[10]
For a while I got on fairly well in this new life, then gradually my
anxiety about my Paris letters, which were not forthcoming, increased
to such an extent that, in defiance of the kindly expostulations of M.
Horace Vernet, who tried to restrain me by saying that I must be struck
off the list of _pensionnaires_ if I broke the Academy’s most stringent
rule, I decided to return to Paris.
I started, but at Florence was kept in bed a week by quinsy, and so
made the acquaintance of Schlick, the Danish sculptor, a thoroughly
good fellow of much talent. During this week I rewrote the Ball Scene
for my _Symphonie Fantastique_, and added the present Coda.
It was not quite finished when, the first time I was able to go
out, I fetched my letters from the post. Among them was one of such
unparalleled impudence that I fairly took leave of my senses. Needless
to say, it was from Camilla’s mother. In it, after accusing me of
_bringing annoyance_ into her household, she announced the marriage of
my _fiancée_ to M. Pleyel.
In two minutes my plans were laid. I must hurry to Paris to kill two
guilty women and one innocent man; for, this act of justice done, I,
too, must die!
They would expect me, therefore I must go disguised. I hurried to
Schlick and showed him the letter.
“It is scandalous,” he said. “What will you do?”
I thought it best to deceive him so as to be absolutely free.
“Do? Why, return to France. But I will go to my father’s, not to Paris.”
“Right!” he replied. “Your own home will best soothe your wounded
heart. Keep up your spirits.”
“I will; but I must go at once.”
“You can easily go this evening. I know the official people here, and
will get your passport and a seat for you in the mail. Go and pack.”
Instead of packing, I went to a milliner in the Lung ‘Arno.
“Madame,” I said, “I want a lady’s-maid’s outfit by five
o’clock--dress, hat, green veil, everything. Money is no object. Can
you do it?”
She agreed, and leaving a deposit, I went back to the hotel. Taking the
score of the Ball Scene, I wrote across it:
“I have not time to finish, but if the Concert Society will perform the
piece in the absence of the composer, I beg that Habeneck will double
the flute passage at the last entry of the theme, and will write the
following chords for full orchestra. That will be sufficient finale,”
threw it into a valise with a few clothes, loaded my pistols, put
into my pockets two little bottles, one of strychnine, the other of
laudanum; then, conscience-clear with regard to my arsenal, spent the
rest of the time raging up and down the streets of Florence like a mad
dog.
At five, I went back to the shop to try on my clothes, which were
satisfactory, and with the modiste’s “good wishes for the success of my
little comedy,” I went back to say good-bye to Schlick, who looked upon
me as a lost sheep returning to the fold!
A farewell glance at Cellini’s _Perseus_, and we were off.
League after league went by and I sat with clenched teeth. I could
neither eat nor speak. About midnight the driver and I exchanged a few
words about my pistols, he remarking that, if brigands attacked us, we
must on no account attempt to defend ourselves, proceeded to take off
the caps and hide them under the cushions.
“As you like,” I said, indifferently. “I have no wish to compromise
you.”
On our arrival at Genoa (I having tasted nothing but the juice of
an orange, to the astonishment of the courier, who could not make
out whether I belonged to this world or the next), I found that, in
changing carriages at Pietra Santa, my finery had been left behind.
“Confound it all!” I thought; “this looks as if some cursed good angel
stood in the way of my plan.”
Again I hunted up a dressmaker, and after trying three, succeeded
in getting a new outfit. Meanwhile, the Sardinian people, seeing me
trotting after work-girls like this, took it into their sapient heads
that I must be a conspirator, a _carbonero_, a liberator, and refused
to _viser_ my passport for Turin. I must go by Nice.
“Then, for heaven’s sake, _viser_ it for Nice. I don’t care. I’ll go
_viâ_ the infernal regions so long as I get through.”
Which was the greater fool--the policeman, who saw in every Frenchman
an emissary of the Revolution, or myself, who thought I could not set
foot in Paris undisguised; forgetting that, by hiding for a day in a
hotel, I could have found fifty women to rig me out perfectly?
Self-engrossed people are really delightful. They fancy everyone is
thinking about them, and the deadly earnest with which they act up to
the idea is simply delicious!
So, behold me on my way to Nice, going over and over my little Parisian
drama.
Disguised as the Countess de M.’s lady’s-maid, I would go to the house
about nine o’clock with an important letter. While it was being read, I
would pull out my double-barrelled pistols, kill number one and number
two, seize number three by the hair and finish her off likewise; after
which, if this vocal and instrumental concert had gathered an audience,
I would turn the fourth barrel upon myself. Should it miss fire (such
things happen occasionally), I had a final resource in my little
bottles.
Grand climax! It seems rather a pity it never came off.
Now, despite my rage, I began to say:
“Yes, it will be most agreeable, but--to have to kill myself too,
is distinctly annoying. To say farewell to earth, to art; to leave
behind me only the reputation of a churl, who did not understand the
gentle art of living; to leave my symphony unfinished, the scores
unwritten--those glorious scores that float through my brain.... Ah!”
“But no; they shall, they must all die!”
Each minute I drew nearer to France.
That night, on the Cornice road, love of life and love of art whispered
sweet promises of days to come, and I sat listening, vaguely, dreamily,
when the driver stopped to put on the drag. Roused mentally by the
thunder of the waves upon the iron cliffs below, the stupendous majesty
of Nature burst upon me with greater force than ever before, and woke
anew the tempest in my heart--the awful wrestling of Life and Death.
Holding with both hands on to my seat, I let out a wild “Ha!” so
hoarse, so savage, so diabolic that the startled driver bounced aside
as if he had indeed had a demon for his fellow-traveller.
In my first lucid moments I remember thinking, “If only I could find
some solid point of rock to cling to before the next wave of fury and
madness sweeps over my head, I might yet be saved!”
I found one. We stopped to change horses at a little Sardinian
village--Ventimiglia, I believe[11]--and, begging five minutes from the
guard, I hurried into a café, seized a scrap of paper, and wrote to M.
Vernet, praying him to keep me on the roll of students, if I were not
already crossed off, assuring him that I had not yet broken the rule,
and promising not to cross the frontier until I received his answer at
Nice, where I would await it.
Temporarily safeguarded by my word of honour, yet free to take up my
Red Indian scheme of vengeance again, should I be excluded from the
Academy, I got quietly into the carriage and suddenly discovered that
... I was hungry, having eaten nothing since leaving Florence.
Oh, good, gross Nature! I was positively reviving!
I got to Nice, still growling at intervals; but, after a few days came
M. Vernet’s answer--a friendly paternal letter that touched me deeply.
Though ignorant of the reason of my trouble, the great artist gave me
the best advice, showing me that hard work and love of art were the
sovereign remedies for a mind diseased; telling me that the Minister
knew nothing of my escapade, and that I should be received with open
arms in Rome.
“They are saved!” I sighed. “Suppose I live too?--live quietly,
happily, musically? Why not? Let’s try!”
So for a month I dwelt alone at Nice, writing the _King Lear_ overture,
bathing in the sea, wandering through orange groves, and sleeping on
the healthy slopes of the Villefranche hills.
Thus passed the twenty happiest days of my life.
Oh, Nizza!
But the King of Sardinia’s police put an end to this idyllic life.
I had spoken to one or two officers of the garrison, and had even
played billiards with them. This was sufficient to rouse the darkest
suspicions.
“This musician cannot have come to hear _Mathilde de Sabran_” (the
only opera given just then), “since he never goes near the theatre.
He wanders alone on the hills, no doubt expecting a signal from some
revolutionary vessel; he never dines at _table d’hôte_ in order to
avoid spies; he is ingratiating himself with our officers in order
to start negotiations with them in the name of Young Italy. It is a
flagrant conspiracy!”
I was summoned to the police office.
“What are you doing here, sir?”
“Recruiting after a terrible illness. I compose, I dream, I thank God
for the glorious sun, the sea, the flower-clothed hillsides----”
“You are not an artist?”
“No.”
“Yet you wander about with a book in your hand. Are you making plans?”
“Yes, the plan of an overture to _King Lear_--at least the
instrumentation is nearly finished, and I believe its reception will be
tremendous.”
“What do you mean by reception? Who is this King Lear?”
“Oh, a wretched old English king.”
“English king?”
“Yes; according to Shakespeare he lived about eighteen hundred years
ago, and was idiotic enough to divide his kingdom between two wicked
daughters, who kicked him out when he had nothing more to give them.
You see, there are few kings that----”
“Never mind kings now. What do you mean by instrumentation?”
“It is a musical term.”
“Same excuse again! Sir, I know that you cannot possibly compose
wandering about the beach with only a pencil and paper, and no piano,
so tell me where you wish to go, and your passport shall be made out.
You cannot remain here.”
“Then I will go back to Rome, and, by your leave, continue to compose
without a piano.”
Next day I left Nice, greatly against the grain, but I was brisk and
light-hearted, well and thoroughly cured. Thus once more loaded pistols
missed fire.
Never mind. My little drama was interesting, and I cannot help
regretting it--just a little!
_To_ H. FERRAND.
“_11th May 1831._--Well, Ferrand, I am getting on. Rage, threats of
vengeance, grinding of teeth, tortures of hell--all over and done
with!
“If your silence means laziness on your part, it is too bad of you.
When one comes back to life, as I have done, one feels the need of
a friendly arm, of an outstretched hand.
“Yes, Camille has married Pleyel, and I am glad of it. I see now
the perils that I have escaped.
“What meanness! what shabbiness! what apathy! what infinite--almost
sublime--villainy, if sublime can agree with ignobility (I have
stolen that newly coined word from you).
“_P.S._--I have just finished a new overture--to _King Lear_.”
XVIII
ITALIAN MUSIC
I did not hurry back to Rome, but spent some time in Genoa, where I
heard Paër’s _Agnese_, and where I could find no trace of bust or
statue or tradition of Columbus. I also tried in vain to hear something
of Paganini, who at that moment was electrifying Paris, while I--with
my usual luck--was kicking my heels in his native town.
Thence I went back to Florence, which of all Italian cities appeals
to me most. There the spleen that devours me in Rome and Naples takes
flight. With barely a handful of francs--since my little excursion had
made a big hole in my income, knowing no one and being consequently
entirely free--I passed delicious days visiting odd corners, dreaming
of Dante and Michael Angelo, and reading Shakespeare in the shady woods
on the Arno bank.
Knowing, however, that the Tuscan capital could not compare with Naples
and Milan in opera, I took no thought for music until I heard people
at _table d’hôte_ talking of Bellini’s _Montecchi_, which was soon to
be given. Not only did they praise the music, but also the libretto.
Italians, as a rule, care so little for the words of an opera that I
was surprised, and thought:
“At last I shall hear an opera worthy of that glorious play. What
a subject it is! Simply made for music. The ball at Capulet’s
house, where young Romeo first sees his dazzling love; the street
fight whereat Tybalt presides--patron of anger and revenge; that
indescribable night scene at Juliet’s balcony; the witty sallies of
Mercutio; the prattle of the nurse; the solemnity of the friar trying
to soothe these conflicting elements; the awful catastrophe and the
reconciliation of the rival families above the bodies of the ill-fated
lovers.”
I hurried to the Pergola Theatre.
What a disappointment! No ball, no Mercutio, no babbling nurse, no
balcony scene, no Shakespeare!
And Romeo sung by a small thin _woman_, Juliet by a tall stout one.
Why--in the name of all things musical--why?
Do they think that women’s voices sound best together? Then why not do
away with men’s entirely?
Why should Juliet’s lover be deprived of all virility? Could a woman or
a child have slain Tybalt, having burst the gates of Juliet’s tomb and
stretched County Paris a corpse at his feet?
Surely Othello and Moses with high women’s voices would not be more
utterly incongruous.
In justice, I must say that Bellini has got a most beautiful effect in
a really powerful incident. The lovers, dragged apart by angry parents,
tear themselves free and rush into each other’s arms, crying: “We meet
again in heaven.”
He has used a quick, impassioned _motif_, sung in unison, that
expresses most eloquently the idea of perfect union.
I was unwontedly moved, and applauded heartily. Thinking that I
had better know the worst that Italian opera could perpetrate, had
better--as it were--drink the cup to the dregs, I went to hear
Paccini’s _Vestal_. Although I knew it had nothing in common with
Spontini’s opera, I little dreamed of the bitterness of the cup I
had to face. Licinius, again, was a woman.... After a few minutes’
painfully strained attention I cried, with Hamlet, “Wormwood!
wormwood!” and fled, feeling I could swallow no more, and stamping so
hard that my great toe was sore for three days after.
Poor Italy!
At least, thought I, it will be better in the churches. This was what I
heard.
A funeral service for the elder son of Louis Bonaparte and Queen
Hortense was being held.
What thoughts crowded into my mind as I stood amid the flaming torches
in the crape-hung church! A Bonaparte! _His_ nephew, almost his
grandson, dead at twenty; his mother, with his only brother, an exile
in England.
I thought of the gay creole child dancing on the deck of the ship
that carried her to France, untitled daughter of Madame Beauharnais,
adopted daughter of the master of Europe, Queen of Holland, exiled,
forgotten, bereft, without a kingdom, without a home!
Oh, Beethoven! Great soul! Titan, who couldst conceive the _Eroica_ and
the _Funeral March_, is not this a meet subject for thy genius?...