in bed and unable to speak. As the least agitation would be fatal
to her, do not write to her as you have done to me.
“You talk of being a sailor. Do you wish to leave me? for, once
at sea, God knows when I shall see you again. Were I but free I
would go with you, and we would seek our fortunes in India or some
far-off land, but to travel one must have money, and only in France
can I get my living--such as it is.
“I am speaking to you as if you were grown up. You must think over
what I say and you will understand. But remember that, whatever
happens, I am and always shall be your best and most devoted
friend. It would indeed be sad if, when you came to be twenty years
of age, you found yourself useless both to society and yourself.
Good-bye, dear child. My heartfelt love.”
_Faust_ was my ruin. After two days of unutterable misery I decided to
retrieve my fortunes by a tour in Russia, if I could but collect enough
money first to pay my debts. Then did my kind friends rally round me
and apply healing balm to my wounded spirit.
M. Berlin advanced me a thousand francs from the _Débats_ funds; one
friend lent me five hundred, others six or seven; M. Friedland, a young
German I had met in Prague, twelve hundred, and Hetzel a thousand.
So, helped on all sides, I was able, with a clear conscience, to leave
for Russia on the 14th February 1847, feeling that few men have been
so blessed as I in the devoted generosity and kind-heartedness of my
single-minded friends.
The time for concert-giving in Russia is Lent--March--as then the
theatres are all closed. The cold was intense, and during my whole
fortnight’s journey I never lost sight of the snow, and made only one
short stop in Berlin to beg a letter of introduction to the Empress
of Russia from her brother, the King of Prussia, which, with his
invariable kindness, he sent me at once.
Before leaving Paris, Balzac said to me:
“Be sure at Tilsit to hunt up the post-master, M. Nernst. He is a
clever, well-read man and may be useful to you.”
So at Tilsit I walked into his office and there found a big man perched
on a high stool.
“M. Nernst?” I said, taking off my hat.
“Yes, monsieur; to whom have I the honour of speaking?”
“To Hector Berlioz.”
“No! not really?” He bounced off his stool and landed before me, cap in
hand.
How well I remember my poor father’s happy pride in this story! “Not
really?” he would repeat, and his laughter would ring out again and
again.
We had a cordial meeting-ground in our mutual friendship with Balzac,
and after some hours’ rest I set out, warmed and comforted, in a
horrible iron sledge wherein I endured a martyrdom till, four days
later, I reached St Petersburg.
Hardly had I shaken off the traces of my journey when M. Lenz, an old
acquaintance, came to take me to Count Michael Wielhorski, from whom I
received a most flattering welcome. He and his brother, by their love
of art, their great connections and immense fortune, have made their
palace a sort of little Ministry of Fine Arts.
By them I was introduced to Romberg, General Guédéonoff, superintendent
of the Imperial theatres, and General Lwoff, aide-de-camp to the
Emperor, a composer of rare talent.
Not to go into too many details, my visits both to St Petersburg and
Moscow were the greatest success financially as well as artistically.
My first concert (at which I was summoned, hot and dishevelled with
my exertions, to the box of the Emperor, who was most gracious) made
eighteen thousand francs; the expenses were six thousand, the balance
was mine.
I could not resist murmuring, as I turned to the south-west, “Ah, dear
Parisians!”
I must just recall one of my red-letter days--the performance of _Romeo
and Juliet_ in St Petersburg.
No wretched bargaining, no limitation of rehearsals here!
I asked General Guédéonoff:
“How many rehearsals can your Excellency allow me?”
“How many? Why! as many as you want. They will rehearse until you are
satisfied.”
And they did; consequently it was royally, imperially, organised and
performed.
The vast theatre was full; diamonds, uniforms, helmets shone and
glittered everywhere. I, too, was in good form, and conducted without a
single mistake--a thing that, in those days, did not happen often.
I was recalled more times than I could count, but I must own that I
paid small heed to the public, the divine Shakespearean poem that I
myself had made affected me so deeply that, the moment I was free, I
fled to a quiet room in the theatre, where my dear, good Ernst found me
in floods of tears.
“Ah! nerves!” said he, “I know too well what it is.”
And, holding my head, he let me sob like a hysterical girl for a
quarter of an hour.
Despite its warm reception, I doubt that my symphony was rather over
the heads of the audience, therefore, when it was to be repeated, on
the advice of the cashier of the theatre, I added two scenes from
_Faust_.
I heard of a funny incident at this second performance. One lady
present sat and was bored with most exemplary patience; she would not
have it thought that she could not understand this feast of music.
Proud of having stayed to the end, she said, as she left her box:
“Yes, it is a tremendous thing, but quite intelligible. In that grand
introduction I could absolutely _see Romeo driving up in his gig_!!!”
I spoke of Ernst just now--great artist and noble friend. He has been
compared to Chopin--a comparison both true and false.
Chopin could never bear the restraints of time, and, I think, carried
his independence too far; he simply _could not_ play in time. Ernst,
while employing _rubato_, kept it within artistic limits, retaining
always a dignified sway over his own caprices.
In Chopin’s compositions all the interest centres in the piano, his
orchestral concerto accompaniments are cold and practically useless.
Ernst is distinguished by quite the opposite--his concerted music is
not only brilliant for the solo instrument, but the symphonic interest
is thoroughly grateful and sustained.
Even Beethoven allowed the orchestra to overpower the soloist, and, to
my mind, the perfect system is that adopted by Ernst, Vieuxtemps and
Liszt.
Chopin was the delicate refined virtuoso of small gatherings, of groups
of intimate friends. Ernst was master of crowds; he loved them, and,
like Liszt, was at his very best with two thousand hearers to conquer.
* * * * *
The Great Feast being over, there was nothing to keep me in St
Petersburg, which, however, I left with great regret.
Passing through Riga, I thought I would give a concert. The receipts
hardly covered the expenses (I think I was twelve francs to the
good), but it procured me the friendship of some pleasant artists and
amateurs, amongst them the post-master, who turned out to be a constant
reader of my newspaper articles. He looked me dubiously up and down,
and said:
“You don’t _look_ a firebrand, but from your articles I should have
expected quite a different sort of man, for, devil take me! you write
with a dagger, not a pen!”
The King of Prussia wishing to hear my _Faust_, I arranged to stay
ten days in Berlin. The Opera House was placed at my disposal, and I
was promised half the gross receipts. The orchestra and choruses were
capital, but I cannot say as much for the soloists, who were feeble in
the extreme. The King of Thule ballad was hissed, but whether this was
due to me or to the singer I cannot say--probably both--for the stalls
were filled with a malicious crowd who objected to a Frenchman having
the audacity to set to music a German classic.
However, by the time we got to the _Danse des Sylphes_ I was in a bad
temper and refused the encore they gave it.
The royalties were apparently satisfied; the Princess of Prussia said
many nice things and the King sent me the Red Eagle by Meyerbeer and
invited me to dinner at Sans Souci. I met with a cordial reception,
gave him news of his sister in Russia and finally ventured to say after
dinner was over: “Ah, sire, you are the true king of artists. Without
you could Spontini and Meyerbeer have gained a hearing? Was it not at
your suggestion that Mendelssohn composed his _Antigone_ music? Did not
you commission him to write the _Midsummer Night’s Dream_? Does not
your known love of art incite us all to do our best?”
“Well, perhaps so,” he answered, “but there’s no need to say so much
about it.”
But it is true. Now there are two other sovereigns who share his
interest--the Grand Duke of Saxe-Weimar and the blind young King of
Hanover.
* * * * *
On returning to France I took my boy to see his relations at La Côte
Saint-André. Poor Louis! how happy he was; petted by relations and old
servants and wandering about the fields, his little hand thrust in
mine.
In a letter I had yesterday he says that that fortnight was the
happiest of his life. And now he is at the blockade of the Baltic, on
the eve of a naval battle--that hell upon the sea! The mere thought of
it maddens me; yet he chose it himself--this noble profession. But we
did not expect war then.
Dear noble boy! at this minute they may be bombarding Bomarsund--it
will not bear thinking of, I must turn to other things--I can write no
more.
* * * * *
From Paris and its usual weary round of jealousy and intrigue, it was a
comfort to turn to London, whence I received the offer of an engagement
to conduct the grand English Opera for Jullien. In his usual rôle of
madman he got together orchestra, chorus, principals and theatre,
merely forgetting a repertoire. To cover expenses he would have had to
take ten thousand francs a night and this he expected to net out of an
English version of _Lucia di Lammermoor_!
_To_ TAJAN ROGÉ of St Petersburg.
“LONDON, _November 1847_.--Dear Rogé,--Your letter should
have been answered sooner had it not been for the thousand and one
worries that overwhelmed me the minute I set foot in Paris.
“You can have no idea of my existence in that infernal city that
thinks itself the home of Art.
“Thank heaven I have escaped to England and am, financially, more
independent than I dared to hope.
“Jullien, the manager here, is a most intrepid spirit and seems to
understand English people; he has made his fortune and is going
to make mine, he says. I let him have his own way since he does
nothing unworthy of art and good taste--but I have my doubts.
“I have come _alone_ to London; you may guess my reasons. I badly
needed a little freedom which, so far, I have never been able to
get. Not one _coup d’état_ but a whole series was necessary before
I succeeded in shaking off my bonds. Yet now, although I am so busy
with rehearsals, my loneliness seems very odd.
“Since I am in a confidential mood, will you believe that I had
a queer little love affair in St Petersburg with a girl--now
don’t laugh like a full orchestra in C major! It was poetic,
heart-rending, and perfectly innocent.
“Oh, our walks! oh, the tears I shed when, like Faust’s Marguerite,
she said: ‘What can you see in me--a poor girl so far beneath you?’
I thought I should die of despair when I left St Petersburg, and
was really ill when I found no letter from her in Berlin. She _did_
promise to write, probably by now she is married.
“I can picture it all again--the Neva banks, the setting sun. In a
maze of passion I pressed her hand to my heart, and sang her the
Love Song from _Romeo_.
“Ah me! not two lines since I left her.
“Good-bye; you at least will write to me.”
_To_ AUGUSTE MOREL.
“76 HARLEY STREET, LONDON, _31st November 1847_.--Jullien
asks me confidentially to get your report on the success of Verdi’s
new opera.[23] We begin next week with the _Bride of Lammermoor_,
which can hardly help going well with Madame Gras and Reeves. He
has a beautiful voice, and sings as well as this awful English
language will allow.
“I had a warm reception at one of Jullien’s concerts, but shall not
begin my own until January.
“Your friend, M. Grimblot, has given me the _entrée_ to his club,
but heaven only knows what amusement is to be found in an English
club. Macready gave a magnificent dinner in my honour last week;
he is charming and most unassuming at home, though they say he is
terrible at rehearsal. I have seen him in a new tragedy, _Philip
van Artevelde_; he is grand, and has mounted the piece splendidly.
“No one here understands the management and grouping of a crowd as
he does. It is masterly.”
* * * * *
“_8th December._--The opening of our season was a success. Madame
Gras and Reeves were recalled frantically four or five times, and
they both deserved it.
“Reeves is a priceless discovery for Jullien; his voice is
exquisite in quality, he is a good musician, has an expressive
face, and plays with judgment.”
* * * * *
“_14th January._--Jullien has landed us all in a dreadful bog, but
don’t mention it in Paris, as we must not spoil his credit. It
is not the Drury Lane venture that has ruined him; that was done
before; now he has gone off to the provinces and is making a lot of
money with his promenade concerts, while we take a fair amount each
night at the theatre, none of which goes into our pockets, for _we
are not paid at all_. Only the orchestra, chorus, and work-people
are paid every week in order to keep the thing going somehow.
“If Jullien does not pay me on his return, I shall arrange with
Lumley to give some concerts in Her Majesty’s Theatre, for there is
a good opening here since poor Mendelssohn’s death.”
* * * * *
“_12th February 1848._--My music has taken with the English as
fire to gunpowder. The _Rakoczy_ and _Danse des Sylphes_ were
encored. Everyone of importance, musically, was at Drury Lane
for my concert, and most of the artists came to congratulate me.
They had expected something diabolic, involved, incomprehensible.
Now we shall see how they agree with our Paris critics. Davison
himself wrote the _Times_ critique; they cut half of it out from
want of space; still the remainder has had its effect. Old Hogarth
of the _Daily News_ was truly comical: ‘My blood is on fire,’
said he; ‘never have I been excited like this by music.’<span
class="lftspc">”</span>
Jullien, coming finally to the end of his resources, was obliged to
call a council of war. It consisted of Sir Henry Bishop, Sir George
Smart, Planché, Gye, Marezeck, and myself.
He talked wildly of the different operas he proposed to mount, and
finally came to _Iphigenia in Tauris_, which, like many others, is
promised yearly by the London managers. Impatient at my silence he
turned upon me:
“Confound it all! surely you know that?”
“Certainly I know it. What do you want me to tell you?”
“How many acts there are, how many characters, what voices and, above
all, the style of setting and costume.”
“Take a pen and paper and I will tell you. Four acts, three men:
Orestes, baritone; Pylades, tenor; Thoas, high bass; a grand woman’s
part, Iphigenia, soprano; a small one, Diana, mezzo-soprano. The
costumes you will not like, unfortunately; the Scythians are ragged
savages on the shores of the Black Sea; Orestes and Pylades are
shipwrecked Greeks. Pylades alone has two dresses--in the fourth act he
comes in in a helmet----”
“A helmet!” cried Jullien, excitedly; “we are saved! I’ll write to
Paris for a golden helmet with a pearl coronet, and an ostrich plume as
long as my arm. We’ll have forty performances.”
“Prodigious!” as good Dominie Sampson says.
Needless to say, nothing happened. Reeves, the divine tenor, laughed at
the bare idea of singing Pylades, and Jullien quitted London shortly
after, leaving his theatre to go to pieces.
XXXI
MY FATHER’S DEATH--MEYLAN
Already saddened on my return to Paris by the havoc and ruin caused by
the Revolution, it was but my usual fate to suffer in addition, the
terrible sorrow of losing my father.
My mother had died ten years before, and, bitter as was that blow, it
was but light in comparison with the wrench of parting with this dearly
loved and sympathetic friend.
We had so much in common, our tastes were similar in so many ways, and,
since he had gladly acknowledged himself in the wrong over my choice of
a profession, we had been so entirely at one.
Ah! that I could have gratified his ardent wish to hear my _Requiem_,
but it was not to be.
I pass over the sorrow of my home-coming, the meeting with my
grief-worn sisters, the sight of his empty chair, of his watch--still
living, though he was dead!
A strange wish to indulge the luxury of grief crept over me; I must
drink this wormwood cup to the dregs; I must revisit Meylan--the early
home of my Mountain Star--and live over again my early love and sorrow.
Even now my heart beats faster as I recall my journey. Thirty-three
years ago and I, a ghost, come back to my early haunts! As I climb
through the vineyards the thoughts, the aspirations, the desires of my
childish days crowd in upon me.
Here did I sit with my father, playing _Nina_ to him on my flute; there
did Estelle stand.
I turn and take in the whole picture; that blessed house, the garden,
the valley, the river, and the far-off Alpine glaciers.
Once more I am young; life and love--a glorious poem--lie before me;
on my knees I cry to the hills, the valleys, the heavens: “Estelle!
Estelle!”
Bleed, my heart, bleed! but leave me still the power to suffer!
I rise and wander on, noting each familiar point. Here is her cherry
tree; there still flowers the plant of everlasting pea from which she
plucked blossoms. Sweet plant! bloom on in thy solitude! Good-bye!
good-bye!
Good-bye to my childhood, to my lost love--Time sweeps me on; Stella!
Stella!
The cold hand of Death lies heavy on my heart, yet around me are soft
sunlight, solitude, and silence.
* * * * *
Next day I asked my cousin Victor:
“Do you know Madame F----?”
“The lovely Estelle D----, do you mean?”
“Yes, I loved her so when I was twelve--I love her yet.”
“You idiot,” said Victor, laughing, “she is fifty-one, and has a son of
twenty-two.”
He laughed again, and I laughed too, but mine was the cry of despair,
an April gleam through the rain.
“Nevertheless I want to see her.”
“Hector, I beg you will do no such thing. You will make a fool of
yourself and upset her.”
“I want to see her,” I repeated doggedly, with clenched teeth.
“Fifty-one!” he cried again, “you had much better keep your bright,
fresh, youthful memory of her.”
“Well, then, I will write.”
He gave me a pen, and subsided into an armchair in fits of laughter,
while my incoherent, despairing letter was composed. I sent it, but no
reply came. When next I go to Grenoble I mean to see her.
* * * * *
In May 1851 I was commissioned by Government to judge instruments at
the London Exhibition, and wrote to Joseph d’Ortigue in June 1851--
“I want to tell you of the extraordinary impression made on me by the
singing of six thousand Charity School children in St Paul’s Cathedral.
It is an annual affair, and is, beyond compare, the most imposing, the
most _Babylonian_ ceremony I ever witnessed.
“It was a realisation of part of my dreams, and proof positive of the
unknown power of vast musical masses.
“This fact is no more understood on the Continent than is Chinese music.
“By-the-bye, France is easily first in the manufacture of musical
instruments. Erard, Sax and Vuillaume lead; all the others are of the
reed-pipe and tin-kettle tribe.”
_To_ LWOFF.
“_January 1852._--It is impossible to do anything in Paris, so next
month I shall go back to England, where, at least, the _wish to
love music_ is real and persistent. If I can be of the least use to
you in my newspaper articles, commend me, dear master. It will be
a pleasure to tell our few earnest French readers of the great and
good things that are done in Russia. It is a debt I shall gladly
pay, since I never shall forget the warmth of my reception and the
kindness of your Empress and your great Emperor’s family.
“What a pity he himself does not like music!”
_To_ J. D’ORTIGUE.
“LONDON, _March 1852_.--Just a line to tell you of my
colossal success. Recalled I know not how often, and applauded
both as composer and conductor. This morning, in the _Times_, the
_Morning Post_, the _Advertiser_, and others, such effusions as
never were written before about me! Beale is wild with joy, for it
really is an event in the musical world. The orchestra at times
surpassed all that I have heard in _verve_, delicacy and power.
“All the papers except the _Daily News_ puff me, and now I am
preparing Beethoven’s _Choral Symphony_, which, so far, has been
sadly mutilated here.
“But can you believe that all the critics are against the _Vestal_,
of which we performed the first part yesterday?
“I am utterly cast down at this _lapsus judicii_--am I not
weak?--and am ashamed of having succeeded at such a cost. Why can I
not remember that the good, the beautiful, the true, the false, the
ugly, are not the same to everyone?”
* * * * *
“_May 1852._--You speak of the expenses of our concerts; they are
enormous. Every impresario in London expected to lose this year.
In fact Beale, in the programme of the last concert, actually told
the public that the _Choral Symphony_ rehearsals had swallowed more
than a third of the subscription.
“However, it has had a miraculous effect, and my success as
conductor was great also; indeed, it was such an event in the
musical world that people greatly doubted whether we should carry
it through.”
* * * * *
“_June 1852._--I leave to-morrow. How I shall regret my glorious
chorus and orchestra! Those beautiful women’s voices!
“If only you had been here to hear our second performance of the
_Choral Symphony_. The effect in that enormous Exeter Hall was most
imposing.
“Paris once more! where I must forget these melodious joys in my
daily task of critic--the only one left me in my precious native
land!
“A naïf Birmingham amateur was heard the other day regretting
that I had not been engaged for the Birmingham Festival. ‘For I
hear,’ said he, ‘that Berlioz really is better than Costa!!!’<span
class="lftspc">”</span>
_To_ LOUIS BERLIOZ.
“1852.--You say you are going mad! You must actually _be_ mad to
write me such letters in the midst of the strenuous fatigue of my
present life.
“In your last letter from Havana you say you will arrive home with
a hundred francs. Now you say you owe forty. Now remember! I shall
take no notice in future of the nonsense you talk.
“You chose your own profession--a hard one, I grant you, but the
hardest part is over. Only five more months, and you will be in
port for six months studying, after which you will be able to earn
your own living.
“I am putting aside money for your expenses during those six
months. I can do no more.
“What is this about torn shirts? Six weeks in Havana, and all your
clothes ruined! At that rate you will want dozens of shirts every
five months. You must be laughing at me.
“Please weigh your language in writing to me. I do not like your
present style. Life is not strewn with roses, and I can give you no
career but _that which you yourself chose_. It is too late to alter
now.”
_To_ J. D’ORTIGUE.
“_January 1854._--Yes, dear d’Ortigue, you are right. It is my
ungovernable passion for Art that is the cause of all my trouble,
all my real suffering. Forgive me for letting you read between the
lines. I knew it would hurt you, and yet I could not hold back the
words that burnt me, although I might have known that your opinions
on Art would be in accord with your religious feelings.
“You know that I love the beautiful and the true, but I have
another love quite as ardent--the love of love.
“And when for some idea, some misunderstanding, I feel that my love
may be lessened, something within me bursts asunder, and I cry like
a child with a broken toy.
“I know it is puerile, but it is true, although I do my best
to cure myself. Like a true Christian, you have punished me by
returning good for evil.
“Your notes are capital, and I think I shall be able to use them,
though never did I feel less in the mood for writing.
“I cannot make a beginning. And I am sad--so sad! Life is slipping
away. I long to _work_, and am obliged to _drudge_ in order to
live. Adieu, adieu.”
XXXII
POOR OPHELIA