Voltaire and say: ‘The more I see of other lands, _the less_ I love
my country.’ But all the glories of the glorious kingdom of Naples
are powerless beside the ineffable charms of my beautiful vale of
the Isère.
“Of society, however, I cannot say the same. The advantage is
entirely with the absent, who are not ‘always wrong’ in spite of
the proverb.
“Despite my herculean efforts to turn the conversation, the good
folks here _will_ insist on talking art, music and poetry to me,
and you may imagine how provincials talk! They have most weird
notions, theories and ideas that make an artist’s blood curdle in
his veins, and, withal, the calmest assumption of infallibility.
“One would think to hear them talk of Byron, Goethe, Beethoven,
that they were respectable bootmakers or tailors, with a little
more talent than their compeers.
“Nothing is good enough, there is no reverence, no respect, no
enthusiasm!
“Thus living in a crowd, I am utterly, cruelly alone and am parched
for want of music.
“No longer can I look forward to my evening’s pleasure with
Mademoiselle Louise and her piano; no more can I try her sweet
patience by demanding and re-demanding those sublime adagios.
“You smile, Madame? No doubt you murmur that I know neither what I
want nor where I would be--that I am, in fact, half demented.
“My father devised a charming cure for my malady; he said I ought
to marry and forthwith unearthed a rich damsel, informing me that,
since he could leave me but little, it was my duty to marry money.
“At first I laughed, but finding that he was in sober earnest, I
was obliged to say firmly that, since I could not love the lady in
question, I would not sell myself at any price.
“That ended the discussion, but it upset me terribly, for I thought
my father knew me better.
“Madame, do you not think I am right?
“As I promised Monsieur Horace, I will go to Paris at the end of
the year to fire my musical broadside, after which I intend to
start at once for Berlin.
“But indeed, Madame, I am taking unmerciful advantage of your
kindness and will conclude by asking your pardon for my garrulity.
_To_ FERDINAND HILLER.
“LA CÔTE ST ANDRÉ, _August 1832_.--What a dainty, elusive,
piquant, teasing, witty creature is this Hiller! Were we both
women, I should detest her; were she, alone, a woman I should
simply hate her, for I loathe coquettes. As it is--‘Providence
having ordered all for the best’ as the good say--we are luckily
both masculine.
“No, my dear fellow, you, being you, naturally ‘could not do
otherwise’ than make me wait two months for your letter; naturally,
also, I ‘could not do otherwise’ than be angry with you therefor.
However, as I was not wounded to the quick by your neglect, I wrote
you a second letter which I burnt, remembering Napoleon’s wise
saying, ‘Certain things should never be said.’ If so, still less
should they be written.
“Come now! Since you are learning Latin I will turn schoolmaster.
“There are mistakes in your letter.
“No. 1. No accent on _negre_.
“No. 2. DE _grands amusements_, not _des_.
“No. 3. _Il est possible que Mendelssohn_ L’AIT, not
_l’aura_.
“Take thou good heed unto my lesson. Ouf!
“I am in the bosom of my family, by whom (particularly by my
younger sister) I allow myself to be adored in an edifying manner.
But oh! I long for liberty and love and money! They will come some
day and perhaps also one little luxury--one of those superfluities
that are necessities to certain temperaments--_revenge_, public and
private. One only lives and dies once.
“I spend my time in copying my _Mélologue_; I have been two
months at it hard and have still sixty-two days’ work. Am I not
persevering? I am ill for want of music, positively paralysed; then
I still suffer from that choleraic trouble that sometimes keeps me
in bed. However, I am up to-day, getting ready for the next attack.
“I am going to see Ferrand; we have not met for five years. You see
extremes meet. He is more religious than ever and has married a
woman who adores him and whom he adores.
XXI
MARRIAGE
After spending the summer in Dauphiny, copying my monodrama, I went
on to Paris, hoping to give two concerts before starting on my German
wanderings.
Apropos of the _Chorus of Shades_ in this same composition, a rather
comical thing happened in Rome. In order to have it printed it was
necessary for it to pass the Papal censor. Now for this language of
the dead, incomprehensible to the living, I had written pure gibberish
(I have since substituted French, saving my unknown tongue for the
_Damnation de Faust_) of which the censor demanded a translation.
They tried a German, who could make nothing of it; an Englishman, the
same; Danes, Swedes, Russians, Spaniards--equally useless. Deadlock
at the censorial office! At last, after much cogitation one of the
officials evolved an argument that appealed forcibly and convincingly
to his colleagues: “Since none of these people understand the language,
perhaps the Romans will not understand it either. In that case I think
we might authorise the printing, without danger to religion or morals.”
So the _Shades_ got printed. Oh reckless censors! Suppose it had been
Sanscrit!
* * * * *
One of my first visits in Paris was to Cherubini, whom I found much
aged and enfeebled. He received me with such affection that I was quite
disarmed and said:
“I fear me the poor man is nigh unto death!”
It was not long before I found my forebodings quite uncalled for; as
far as I was concerned he was as lively as ever.
As my old rooms in the Rue Richelieu were let, some influence compelled
me to cross the road to the house in which Miss Smithson had lived,
Rue Neuve St Marc, where I found a lodging. Next day, meeting the old
servant, I said:
“Do you know what has become of Miss Smithson?”
“Why, monsieur, she is in Paris; she only left the rooms you are in
a few days ago to go to the Rue de Rivoli. She is manageress of an
English theatre that is to open in a few days.”
Dumfoundered, I felt that this was indeed the hand of fate. For more
than two years I had heard no word of “fair Ophelia” and here I arrive
in Paris at the very moment she returns from her tour in Northern
Europe.
A mystic might well find arguments in defence of his cult in this
strange coincidence. What I said was this:
“I have come to Paris to perform my monodrama. If I go to the theatre
before the concert, I shall certainly have another attack of that
_delirium tremens_; all volition will be taken from me; I shall be
incapable of the thought and care essential to the success of my work.
So first my concert, then I will see her if I die for it and will fight
no more against this strange destiny.”
And, despite the Shakespearian names staring at me daily from all the
walls in Paris, I kept sternly to my purpose.
The programme was to consist of the _Symphonie Fantastique_ followed by
_Lelio_, the monodrama which is the complement of the former and is the
second part of my _Episode in an Artist’s Life_.
Now trace the extraordinary sequence.
Two days before the concert--which I felt would be my farewell to life
and art--I was in Schlesinger’s music-shop, when an Englishman came in
and went out almost at once.
“Who is that?” I asked, in idle curiosity.
“Schutter, of _Galignani’s Messenger_. Ah!” cried Schlesinger, “give
me a box for your concert. He knows Miss Smithson, I will get him to
persuade her to go.”
I trembled, but dared not refuse; so, running after M. Schutter, he
explained matters and got his promise to do his best to induce Miss
Smithson to go.
Now while I had been busy over my preparations the unfortunate actress
had been also busy--in ruining herself.
She did not realise that Shakespeare was no longer new to the
changeable, frivolous Parisian public and innocently counted on a
reception such as she had had three years before.
The Romantic School was now on the rising tide and its apostles were
not anxious that it should be stemmed by the colossus of dramatic
poetry nor that their wholesale filchings from his works should be
brought to light.
Hence, sparse audiences, mean receipts and considerable running
expenses that swallowed up all the poor manageress’s savings.
Schutter, long afterwards, told me that he found Miss Smithson too
dejected to accept his invitation; her sister, however, persuaded her
that the change would be good and she at length allowed him to take
her down to the carriage. On the way to the Conservatoire her eyes
fell on the programme; even then, as she read my name (which they had
taken care not to mention) she little knew that she was, herself, the
heroine of my work. But, in her box, she could not help seeing that she
was the subject of conversation in the hall and when Habeneck came on
to conduct with me--gasping with excitement--behind him, she said to
herself:
“It is indeed he--poor young man! But he will have forgotten me--at
least--I hope so.”
The symphony made a tremendous sensation; that was the day of great
enthusiasms and the hall of the Conservatoire (from which I am now shut
out) echoed with the applause of that crowd of musicians. The success,
the fiery _motifs_ of my work, its cries of love and passion and the
mere vibration of such a gigantic orchestra at close quarters, all
worked upon Miss Smithson’s sensitive organisation, and in her heart of
hearts she cried:
“Ah! If he but loved me now!----”
During the interval Schutter and Schlesinger made thinly-veiled
allusions to my sorrows and when, in the _Monodrama_, Lelio said:
“Shall I never meet this Juliet, this Ophelia, for whom my heart
wearies?”
“Juliet! Ophelia!” she thought, “he must be thinking still of me! He
loves me yet!”
From that moment she heard no more; in a dream she sat till the end; in
a dream she returned home. That was the 9th December 1832. But while
the web of one part of my life was being woven on one side of the hall,
on the other side another was in the weaving--compounded of the hatred
and wounded vanity of Fétis.
Before going to Italy I used to earn money by correcting musical
proofs. Troupenas, having given me some Beethoven scores to do that
had previously been revised by Fétis, I found them full of the most
impertinent and unmeaning corrections. I was so furious that I went off
to Troupenas and said:
“M. Fétis’ corrections are criminal. They are entirely opposed to
Beethoven’s intention, and if this edition is published, I warn you
that I shall denounce it to every musician I meet.”
Which I accordingly did and there was such an outcry that Troupenas
was obliged to suppress the corrections and Fétis thought it politic
to tell a lie and announce in the _Revue Musicale_ that there was no
truth in the rumour that he had corrected Beethoven’s symphonies. In
_Lelio_ I gibbeted him still farther by putting into my hero’s mouth
quotations of his own that the audience recognised and applauded, with
much laughter. Fétis, sitting in the front row of the gallery, got the
blow full in the face, and needless to say, was thereafter more my
inveterate enemy than ever.
But I forgot all this next day when I went to call upon Miss Smithson
and began that long course of torturing hopes and fears that lasted
nearly a year.
Her mother and sister and my parents were all opposed to our marriage,
and while various distressing scenes were in progress, the English
theatre closed in debt.
To add to her misfortunes, getting out of her carriage, she missed her
footing, and falling, broke her leg just above the ankle. The injury
was most severe and it was feared that she would be lame for life.
Her accident elicited the greatest sympathy in Paris. Mademoiselle
Mars, particularly, came forward, placing her purse, influence,
everything she had at poor Ophelia’s disposal. I managed to organise a
benefit, in which Chopin and Liszt took part, which brought in enough
to pay the most pressing debts.
At last, in the summer of 1833, Henriette being still weak and quite
ruined, I married her in the face of the opposition of our two
families. All our resources on the wedding day were three hundred
francs lent me by Gounet. But what did it matter, since she was mine?
_To_ H. FERRAND.
“PARIS, _12th June 1833_.--It is really too bad of me
to cause you anxiety on my account. But you know how my life
fluctuates. One day calm, dreamy, rhythmical; the next bored,
nerve-torn, snappy and snarly as a mangey dog, vicious as a
thousand devils, sick of life and ready to end it, were it not for
the frenzied happiness that draws ever nearer, for the odd destiny
that I feel is mine; for my staunch friends; for music, and lastly,
for _curiosity_. My life is a story that interests me greatly.
“You ask how I pass my days? If I am well I read or sleep on the
sofa (for I am in comfortable lodgings) or scribble a few well-paid
pages for the _Europe Littéraire_. About six I go to see Henriette
who, to my sorrow, is still ailing. I must tell you all about her
some day. Your opinion of her is quite wrong; her life, also, is
a strange book, of which her points of view, her thoughts, her
feelings, are by no means the least interesting part.
“I am still meditating the opera I asked you to write in my letter
from Rome eighteen months ago. As, in all this time, you have not
sufficiently conquered your laziness to write it, don’t be angry
that I have given it to Deschamps and Saint-Félix. I really _have_
been patient!”
“_August 1833._--You true friend, not to despair of my future!
These cowards cannot realise that, all the time, I am learning,
observing, gathering ideas and knowledge. Bending before the storm,
I still grow; the wind does but blow off a few leaves; the green
fruit upon my branches holds too firmly to be shaken off. Your
trust helps and encourages me.
“Have I told you of my parting with Henriette--of our scenes,
despair, reproaches, which ended in my taking poison? Her
protestations of love and sorrow brought back my desire to live;
I took an emetic, was ill three days and am still alive! In her
self-abasement she offered to do anything I chose, but now she
begins to hesitate again. I will wait no more and have written
that, unless she goes with me to the Town Hall on Saturday to be
married, I leave for Berlin at once. She shall see that I, who for
so long have languished at her feet, can rise, can leave her, can
live for those who love and understand me.
“To help me to bear this horrible parting a strange chance has
thrown in my way a charming girl of eighteen, who has fled from a
brute who bought her--a mere child--and has kept her shut up like
a slave for four years. Rather than go back to him, she says she
will drown herself and my idea is to take her to Berlin, and by
Spontini’s influence, place her in some chorus. I will try and make
her love me, and if I succeed, I will fan into life the smouldering
embers in my own heart and persuade myself that I love her. My
passport is ready; I must make an end of things here. Henriette
will be miserable but I have nothing to reproach myself with.
“I would give my life this minute for a month of _perfect love_
with her.
“She must abide the consequences of her unstable character; she
will weep and despair at first, then will dry her tears and end by
believing me in the wrong.”
* * * * *
“_11th October 1833._--I am married! All opposition has been in
vain. Henriette has told me of the hundred and one lies they spread
abroad. I was epileptic, I was mad--nothing was too bad. But we
have listened to our own hearts and all is well.
“This winter we are going to Berlin, but before leaving I must give
a horrid concert.
“How _awfully_ I love my poor Ophelia! When once we can get rid of
her troublesome sister, life will be hard but quite happy.
“We are at Vincennes, where my wife can spend her days in the Park,
but I go to Paris every day. Our marriage has made the devil’s own
row there.
“My little fugitive is provided for. Jules Janin has arranged to
send her away.
“Write soon. I love to answer, in order to tell you of the heaven
I live in--it needs but you! Surely love and friendship like yours
and mine is one of the supreme joys of this world!”
XXII
NEWSPAPER BONDAGE
At the time of our marriage our sole income was my scholarship, which
still had a year and a half to run; but the Minister of the Interior
absolved me from the regulation German tour. I had a fair number of
friends and adherents in Paris and firm faith in the future.
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.
“MONTMARTRE, _30th August 1834_.--You are not
forgotten--not the least little bit, but you cannot know what a
slave I am to hard necessity. Had it not been for those confounded
newspaper articles I should have written to you a dozen times.
“I will not write the usual empty phrases on your loss yet, if
anything could soften the blow, it would be that your father’s
death was as peaceful as one could wish. You speak of my father.
He wrote kindly and quickly in answer to my letter announcing the
birth of my boy. Henriette thanks you for your messages; she, too,
understands the depth of our friendship. I could write all night
but, as I have to tug at my galley-oar all day, I must go to sleep.”
* * * * *
“_30th November 1834._--I quite expected a letter from you to-day,
and although I am dropping with fatigue, I must snatch half an hour
to answer it. The _Symphonie Fantastique_ is out, and, as our poor
Liszt has dropped a terrible lot of money over it, we arranged with
Schlesinger that not one copy was to be given away. They are twenty
francs. Shall I buy one for you?