you know we are still very straitened. My wife and I are as happy
as it is possible to be, in spite of our worldly troubles, and
little Louis is the dearest and sweetest of children.”
* * * * *
“_10th January 1835._--If I had had time I should already have
begun another work I am thinking of, but I am obliged to scribble
these wretched, ill-paid articles. Ah! if only art counted for
something with the Government perhaps I should not be reduced to
this. Never mind, I must find time somehow.”
* * * * *
“_April 1835._--I wrote, about a month ago, an introduction to you
for a young violinist named Allard, who is on his way to Geneva.
“So you have been in Milan! Not a town I like, but it is the
threshold of Italy. I cannot tell you how much, when the weather
is fine, I long for my ancient Campagna and the wild hills that I
loved.
“You ask for news of us.
“Louis can nearly walk alone and Henriette is more devoted to him
than ever. I work like a nigger for the four papers whence I get
my daily bread. They are the _Rénovateur_, which pays badly; the
_Monde Dramatique_ and _Gazette Musicale_ which pay only fairly;
the _Débats_, which pays well.
“Added to this is the nightmare of my musical life; I cannot find
time to compose.
“I have begun a gigantic piece of work for seven hundred musicians,
to the memory of the great men of France.
“It would soon be done if I had but one quiet month, but I dare
not give up a single day to it, lest we should want for absolute
necessaries.
“Which concert do you refer to? I have given seven this season and
shall begin again in November.
“At present we sit dumb under the triumph of Musard,[12] who,
puffed up by the success of his dancing-den concerts, looks upon
himself as a superior Mozart. Mozart never composed anything like
the ‘Pistol-shot Quadrille,’ consequently Mozart died of want.
“Musard is earning twenty thousand francs a year, and Ballanche,
the immortal author of _Orpheus_ and _Antigone_ was nearly thrown
into prison, because he owed two hundred francs.
“Think of it, Ferrand; does not madness lie that way? If I were a
bachelor, so that my rash doings would recoil on myself alone, I
know what I would do.
“Never mind that now, though. Love me always and, to please me,
read de Vigny’s _Chatterton_.”
“_December 1835._--Do not think me a sinner for leaving you so
long in silence. You can have no idea of my work--but I need not
emphasise that, for you know how much pleasure I have in writing to
you and that I should not lightly forego it.
“I have seen Coste, who is publishing serially _Great Men of
Italy_, and he is going to approach you about contributing some
articles. Among those now out is a life of Benvenuto Cellini. Read
it, if you are not already familiar with the autobiography of that
bandit of genius.
“_Harold_ is more successful even than last year, and I think it
quite outdoes the _Fantastique_.
“They have accepted my _Cellini_ for the Opera; Alfred de Vigny[13]
and Auguste Barbier have written me a poem full of dainty vivacity
and colour. I have not begun to work at the music yet, because I am
in the same predicament as my hero, Cellini--short of money. Good
reports from Germany, thanks to Liszt’s piano arrangement of my
Symphony.
* * * * *
“_April 1826._--I still work frightfully hard at journalism. You
know I write concert critiques for the _Débats_, which are signed
‘H.’
“They seem to be making a stir. Parisian artists call them
epoch-making.
“In spite of M. Bertin (the editor’s) wish, I refused to review
either _I Puritani_ or that wretched _Juive_. I should have had to
find too much fault, and people would have put it down to jealousy.
“Then there is the _Rénovateur_, wherein I can hardly control my
wrath over all these ‘pretty little trifles’; and _Picturesque
Italy_ has dragged an article out of me.
“Next, the _Gazette Musicale_ plagues me for a _résumé_ of the
week’s inanities every Sunday.
“Added to that I have tried every concert room in Paris, with
the idea of giving a concert, and find none suitable except the
Conservatoire, which is not available until after the last of the
regular concerts on the 3rd May.
“We often talk of you to Barbier; he is a kindred soul whom you
would love. No one understands better than he the grandeur and
nobility of an artist’s calling.
“Germany still talks of me; Vienna asks for a copy of the score of
the _Fantastique_, but I tell them I cannot possibly let them have
it, as I propose to give it on tour myself.
“All the poets in Paris, from Scribe to Victor Hugo, offer me
subjects, but those idiotic directors stand in the way. Some day I
will set my foot upon their necks.
“Now I must be off to the office of the _Débats_ with my article on
Beethoven’s _C Minor_.
“Meyerbeer is coming soon to superintend his _Huguenots_, which I
am most anxious to hear. He is the only recognised musician who has
shown a keen interest in me.
“Onslow has been paying me his usual bombastic compliments on the
_Pilgrim’s March_. I am glad to think there was not a word of truth
in them, I prefer open hatred to honeyed venom.”
XXIII
THE REQUIEM
In 1836 M. de Gasparin, Minister of the Interior, feeling that
religious music should be better supported, allocated, yearly, a sum of
3000 francs to be given to a French composer, chosen by the Minister,
for either a mass or an oratorio; his idea being also to have it
executed at the expense of the Government.
“I shall begin with Berlioz,” he said, “I am sure he could write a good
Requiem.”
A friend of M. de Gasparin’s son told me this. My surprise was only
equalled by my delight, but, to make sure, I asked an audience of M. de
Gasparin.
“It is quite true,” he said, “I am going out of office, and this is my
last bequest. You have, of course, received the official notification.”
“No, monsieur; it was by a mere chance that I heard of your kind
intentions towards me.”
“What! you ought to have had it a week ago. It must be an official
oversight; I will look into it.”
But nothing happened, and I finally spoke to the Minister’s son, who
told me that there was an intrigue on foot to put off my commission
until his father’s retirement, after which the Director of Fine
Arts--who had no love for me, but whom I need not name since he is
dead--hoped that it would be shelved.
This Monsieur X. was a Rossinist. One day I heard him giving his
opinion of composers, ancient and modern, and rejecting them all,
except Beethoven, whom he forgot. Suddenly he bethought him and said:
“Let’s see. I believe there is another--a German--what is his name?
They play his symphonies at the Conservatoire. You may know him,
Monsieur Berlioz?”
“Beethoven.”
“Ah yes, Beethoven. I believe he has a certain amount of talent.”
I heard that myself. _Beethoven not devoid of talent!_
M. de Gasparin had no intention of being ignored; therefore, finding
that nothing had been done, he sent for M. X. and ordered him sternly
to make out my appointment at once.
Naturally this snub did not increase M. X.’s friendly feeling towards
me but, armed with my decree, I set to work with the greatest ardour.
I had so long ached to try my hand at a Requiem that I flung myself
into it body and soul. My head seemed bursting with the ferment of
ideas, and I actually had to invent a sort of musical short-hand to get
on fast enough.
All composers know the bitter despair of losing beautiful ideas through
want of time to jot them down.
In spite of the rapidity with which I wrote, I afterwards made but few
corrections.
Is it not strange that, during that volcanic time, I should twice over
have dreamed that I was sitting in the Meylan garden, under a beautiful
weeping acacia, alone. Estelle was not there, and I kept asking:
“Where is she? Where is she?”
Who can explain it? Only those who recognise the affinity of the
mysteries of the human heart with those of the magnet.
Here, briefly, is a list of the miseries I endured over that Requiem.
It was arranged that it should be performed at the memorial service
held every July for the victims of the Revolution of 1830. I,
consequently, had the parts copied, and was beginning rehearsals, when
I was told to stop, as the service was to be held without music.
Of course the new Minister owed a certain amount to my copyists and
chorus (without mentioning myself), yet will it be believed that for
five months I had to besiege that department for those few hundred
francs? At last, losing all patience, I had a pretty lively quarrel
with M. X., and as I left his room the guns of the Invalides proclaimed
the fall of Constantine.
Two hours later he sent for me in hot haste. A funeral service was to
be held for General Damrémont and the soldiers who had fallen in the
siege.
Now mark! This being a military affair, General Bernard had charge
of it, and in this way M. X. hoped to get rid of me and also of the
necessity of paying his just debts.
Here the drama becomes complicated.
Cherubini, hearing that my Requiem was to be performed, worked himself
into a fever, for he considered that _his_ Requiem should have a
monopoly of such ceremonies. His rights, his dignity, his genius, all
set aside in favour of a hot-headed young heretic!! His friends, headed
by Halévy, started a cabal to oust me.
Being one morning in the _Débats_ office, I saw Halévy come in. Now M.
Bertin, the editor, has always been one of my best and kindest friends,
and the frigid reception he and his son Armand gave the visitor
somewhat disconcerted him--my presence still more so--and he found a
change of tactics advisable.
He followed M. Bertin into the next room, and I, through the open door,
heard him say that “Cherubini took it so to heart that he was ill in
bed, and he (Halévy) had come to beg M. Bertin to use his influence in
getting him the consolation of the Legion of Honour.”
M. Berlin’s cold voice broke in:
“Certainly, my dear Halévy, we will do our best to get Cherubini such
a well-merited distinction. But as far as the Requiem is concerned, if
Berlioz gives way one jot, _I will never speak to him again_.”
So much for that failure. Next came a blacker plot.
General Bernard agreed that I should have a free hand, and rehearsals
had already begun when M. X. sent for me again. This time it was:
“Habeneck has always conducted our great official performances, and I
know he would be terribly hurt at being left out of this. Are you on
good terms with him?”
“Why, no. We have quarrelled, goodness only knows why--I don’t! He has
not spoken to me for three years. I never troubled to find out the
reason, but he began by refusing to conduct one of my concerts. Still,
if he wishes to conduct this one, he may, but I reserve the right of
conducting one rehearsal.”
On the great day princes, ministers, peers, deputies, the press--home
and foreign--and a mighty crowd gathered in the Invalides. It was most
important that I should have a real success, failure would have crushed
me irretrievably.
My performers were rather curiously arranged. To get the right effect
in the _Tuba mirum_, the four brass bands were placed one at each
corner of the enormous body of instrumentalists and choristers. As
they join in, the _tempo_ doubles, and it is, of course, of the utmost
importance that the time should be absolutely clearly indicated.
Otherwise, my Titanic cataclysm--prepared with so much thought and care
by means of original and hitherto unknown combinations of instruments
to represent the Last Judgment--becomes merely a hideous pandemonium.
Suspicious as usual, I took care to be close to Habeneck--in fact, back
to back with him--keeping an eye on the group of kettledrums (which he
could not see) as the critical moment drew near.
There are about a thousand bars in my Requiem; will it be believed that
at this--the most important of all--Habeneck _calmly laid down his
baton and, with the utmost deliberation, took a pinch of snuff_.
But my eye was upon him; turning on my heel, in a flash I stretched out
my arm and marked the four mighty beats. The executants followed me,
all went right, and my long-dreamed-of effect was a magnificent triumph.
“Dear me,” bleated Habeneck, “I was quite in a perspiration; without
you we should have been done for.”
“Yes, we should,” I answered, eyeing him steadily.
Could it be that this man, in conjunction with M. X. and Cherubini,
planned this dastardly stroke?
I do not like to think so, yet I have not the slightest doubt. God
forgive me if I wrong them.
The Requiem had succeeded, but then began the usual sordid trouble
about payment.
General Bernard, a thoroughly honourable man, had promised me ten
thousand francs for the performance as soon as I brought from the
Minister of the Interior a promise to pay the sum ordered by the
late Minister--M. de Gasparin--and also that due to the copyists and
choristers.
But do you think I could get this letter? It was written out ready for
his signature, and from ten to four I waited in his ante-room. At last
he emerged and, being button-holed by his secretary, scrawled his name
to the precious document, and without a moment’s loss of time I hurried
off to General Bernard, who promptly handed me the ten thousand francs,
which I spent entirely in paying the performers.
Of course I thought the Minister’s three thousand would soon follow.
_Sancta simplicitas!_ Will it be credited that only by making most
unpleasant, almost scandalous, scenes could I, at the end of _eight
months_, get that money?
Later on, when my good friend, M. de Gasparin, again came into office,
he tried to make up for my mortification by giving me the Legion of
Honour. But by that time I was past caring for such a commonplace
distinction.
Duponchel, manager of the Opera and Bordogni, the singing-master, got
it at the same time.
When the Requiem was printed, I dedicated it to M. de Gasparin, all the
more willingly that he was not then in power.
What added greatly to the humour of the situation was that the
opposition newspapers dubbed me a “Government parasite,” and said I had
been paid thirty thousand francs. They only added a nought.
Thus is history written.
Ere long Cherubini played me another charming trick.
A professorship of Harmony was vacant at the Conservatoire, for which I
applied. Cherubini sent for me, and, in his most honeyed voice, said:
“Is it zat you present yourself for ze ’armonee?”
“Yes, monsieur.”
“Zen you vill get it. You ’ave a reputation, influence----”
“Since I asked for it because I want it, I am glad, monsieur.”
“Yes, but zat is vhere I am bothair; I vill zat anozzer get it.”
“Then, monsieur, I withdraw.”
“No, no! I vill not ’ave zat, because you see zey will say I am ze
cause zat you vizdraw.”
“Then I won’t withdraw.”
“But--but--zen you vill get ze place--and I did not vish it for you.”
“Then what am I to do?”
“You know zat you must be pianist, for teach ze ’armonee at
Conservatoire, my tear fallow.”
“Ah, I never thought of that. That is a capital excuse. You want me to
say that, not being a pianist, I withdraw?”
“Just so! just so, my tear fallow! But _I_ am not ze excuse zat you
vizdraw----”
“Certainly not, monsieur; it was stupid of me to forget that only
pianists could teach Harmony.”
“Yes, my tear boy; embrace me, for I lof you much.”
A week after he gave the place to Bienaimé, who played the piano as
well as I do!
Now I call that a thoroughly well-planned trick, and I was among the
first to laugh at it.
Soon after, I seriously hurt the feelings of the friend who “lofed me
much.”
It was at the first performance of his _Ali Baba_, about the emptiest,
feeblest thing he ever wrote. Near the end of the first act, tired of
hearing nothing striking, I called out:
“Twenty francs for an idea!”
In the middle of the second I raised my bid.
“Forty francs for an idea!”
The finale commenced.
“Eighty francs for an idea!”
The finale ended and I took myself off, remarking:
“By Jove! I give it up. I’m not rich enough!”
Of course indignant friends of Cherubini told him of my insolence and,
considering how he “lofed” me, he must have thought me an ungrateful
wretch.
I had better explain here how I got on to the staff of the _Débats_.
One day, being utterly wretched and not knowing where to turn for
money, I wrote an extravagantly amusing tale called “Rubini at Calais.”
These contrasts happen sometimes.
A few days after it came out in the _Gazette Musicale_, the _Journal
des Débats_ reproduced it, with a few words of cordial appreciation
from the editor.
I went to thank M. Bertin, who offered me the proud post of musical
editor. This enabled me to throw up my least well-paid work; yet,
all the same, I abominate criticism, and feel quite ill from the
moment I see the advertisement of a new performance until I have
written my article on it. The ever-recurring task poisons my life. I
hate circumlocution, diplomacy, trimming, and all half-measures and
concessions. They are so much gall and wormwood to me.
People call me passionate, rude, spiteful, prejudiced. O scrubby louts!
If you but knew all I _want_ to write of you, you would find your
present bed of nettles a couch of roses compared to the gridiron on
which I long to toast you!
At least I can truly say that never have I grudged the fullest,
most heartfelt praise to all that aims at the good and true and
beautiful--even when it emanates from my bitterest foes.
One day Armand Bertin, who was grieved at my narrow circumstances, told
me he had heard that I was to be appointed professor of composition
at the Conservatoire, in spite of Cherubini. M. X., whom I met at
the Opera, confirmed it, and I begged him to tender my thanks to the
Minister for a position that would be to me assured comfort.
That was the last I heard of it.
Still I got something--the post of librarian, which I still hold and
which brings me in 118 francs a month.
While I was in England,[14] several worthy patriots tried to eject me,
and it was only the kind intervention of Victor Hugo--who had some
authority in the Chamber--that saved it for me. Another good friend
of mine was M. Charles Blanc, who became Director of Fine Arts, and
frequently helped me with a ready warmth I shall never forget.
XXIV
FRIENDS IN NEED
And now for my opera and its deadly failure.
The strange career of Benvenuto Cellini had made such an impression
on me that I stupidly concluded that it would be both dramatic and
interesting to other people. I therefore asked Léon de Wailly and
Auguste Barbier to write me a libretto on it. I must own that even
our friends thought it had not the elements essential to success, but
it pleased me, and even now I cannot see that it is inferior to many
others that are played daily.
In order to please the management of the _Débats_, Duponchel, manager
of the Opera--who looked upon me as a species of lunatic--read the
libretto and agreed to take my opera. After which he went about saying
that he was going to put it on, not on account of the music, which was
ridiculous, but of the book, which was charming.
Never shall I forget the misery of those three months’ rehearsals.
The indifference of the actors, riding for a fall, Habeneck’s bad
temper, the vague rumours I heard on all sides, all betrayed a general
hostility against which I was powerless. It was worse when we came to
the orchestra. The executants, seeing Habeneck’s surly manner, were
cold and reserved with me. Still they did their duty, which he did not.
He never could manage the quick _tempo_ of the saltarello; the dancers,
unable to dance to his dragging measure, complained to me. I cried:
“Faster! Faster! Wake up!”
Habeneck, in a rage, hit his desk and broke his bow.
After several exhibitions of temper of this sort I said, calmly:
“My good sir, breaking fifty bows will not prevent your time being
twice as slow as it ought to be. This is a saltarello.”
He turned to the orchestra.
“Since it is impossible to please M. Berlioz,” said he, “we will stop
for to-day. You may go.”
If only I could have conducted myself! But in France authors are not
allowed to direct their own works in theatres.
Years later I conducted my _Carnaval Romain_, where that very
saltarello comes in, without the wind instruments having any rehearsal
at all; and Habeneck, certain that I should come to grief, was present.
I rushed the allegro at the proper time and everything went perfectly.
The audience cried “encore,” and the second time was even better than
the first. I met Habeneck as we went out, and threw four words at him
over my shoulder.
“That’s how it goes.” He did not reply.
I never felt so happy conducting as I did that day; the thought of the
torments Habeneck had made me suffer increased my pleasure.
* * * * *
But to return to _Benvenuto_.
Gradually the larger part of the orchestra came over to my side, and
several declared that this was the most original score they had ever
played. Duponchel heard them and said:
“Was ever such a right-about face? Now they think Berlioz’ music
charming, and the idiots are praising it up to the skies.”
Still some malcontents remained, and two were found one night playing
_J’ai du bon tabac_ instead of their parts.
It was just the same on the stage. The dancers pinched their partners,
who, by their shrieks, upset the chorus. When, in despair, I sent for
Duponchel he was never to be found; attending rehearsal was beneath
his dignity.
The opera came on at last. The overture made a furore, the rest was
unmercifully hissed. However it was played three times.
It is fourteen years (I write in 1850) since I was thus pilloried at
the opera, and I have just read over my poor score, carefully and
impartially. I cannot help thinking that it shows an originality, a
raciness and a brilliancy that I shall, probably, never have again and
which deserve a better fate.[15]
_Benvenuto_ took me a long time to write and would never have been
ready--tied as I was by my bread-earning journalistic work--had it not
been for the help of a friend.
It was heart-breaking, and I had almost given up the opera in despair
when Ernest Legouvé came to me, asking:
“Is your opera done?”
“First act not even ready yet. I have no time to compose.”
“But supposing you had time----”
“I would write from dawn till dark.”
“How much would make you independent?”
“Two thousand francs.”
“And suppose someone--If someone--Come, do help me out!”
“With what? What do you mean?”
“Why, suppose a friend lent it to you?”
“What friend could I ask for such a sum?”
“You needn’t ask when I offer it----”
Think of my relief! In real truth, next day Legouvé lent me two
thousand francs, and I finished _Benvenuto_. His noble heart--writer
and artist as he was--guessed my trouble and feared to wound me by his
offer! I have been fortunate in having many staunch friends.
Paganini was back in Paris when _Benvenuto_ was slaughtered; he felt
for me deeply and said:
“If I were a manager I would commission that young man to write me
three operas. He should be paid in advance, and I should make a
splendid thing by it.”
Mortification and the suppressed rage in which I had lived during those
everlasting rehearsals, brought on a bad attack of bronchitis that kept
me in bed, unable to work.
But we had to live, and I determined to give two concerts at the
Conservatoire. The first barely paid its expenses so, as an attraction,
I advertised the _Fantastique_ and _Harold_ together for the 16th
December 1838.
Now Paganini, although it was written at his desire, had never heard
_Harold_, and, after the concert, as I waited--trembling, exhausted,
bathed in perspiration--he, with his little son, Achille, appeared at
the orchestra door, gesticulating violently. Consumption of the throat,
of which he afterwards died, prevented his speaking audibly and Achille
alone could interpret his wishes.
He signed to the child, who climbed on a chair and put his ear close to
his father’s mouth, then turning to me he said:
“Monsieur, my father orders me to tell you that never has he been so
struck by music. He wishes to kneel and thank you.”
Confused and embarrassed, I could not speak, but Paganini seized my
arm, hoarsely ejaculating, “Yes! Yes!” dragged me into the theatre
where several of my players still lingered--and there knelt and kissed
my hand.
Coming away in a fever from this strange scene, I met Armand Bertin;
stopping to speak to him in that intense cold sent me home to bed worse
than ever. Next day, as I lay, ill and alone, little Achille came in.