obtained from broad, grand, simple and somewhat slow movements, such
as the chorus from _Armida_, the _Tibi omnes_ of my _Te Deum_ and the
_Apotheosis_ of my _Funeral Symphony_.
_Letters to_ FERRAND and LOUIS BERLIOZ from
1858 to 1863.
_To_ HUMBERT FERRAND.
“_November 1858._--I have nothing to tell you, I simply want to
write. I am ill, miserable (how many _I’s_ to each line!) Always
_I_ and _me_! One’s friends are for _oneself_, it ought to be
oneself for one’s friends.
“My dejection melts away as I write; for pity’s sake let us write
oftener! These years of silence are insupportable.
“Think how horribly quickly we are dying and how much good your
letters do me!
“Last night I dreamt of music, this morning I recalled it all and
fell into one of those supernal ecstasies.... All the tears of my
soul poured forth as I listened to those divinely sonorous smiles
that radiate from the angels alone. Believe me, dear friend, the
being who could write such miracles of transcendent melody would be
more than mortal.
“So sings great Michael as, erect upon the threshold of the
empyrean, he dreamily gazes down upon the worlds beneath.
“Why, oh, why! have I not such an orchestra that I, too, could sing
this archangelic song!
“Back to this lower earth! I am interrupted. Vulgar, commonplace,
stupid life! Oh! that I had a hundred cannon to fire all at once!
“Good-bye. I feel better. Forgive me!”
* * * * *
“_6th July 1861._--_The Trojans_ has been accepted for the Opera,
but I cannot tell when they will produce it as Gounod and Gervaert
have to come first. But I am determined to worry myself no more; I
will not court Fortune, I will lie in bed and await her.
“All the same, I could not resist a little uncourtly frankness when
the Empress asked me when she should hear _The Trojans_.
“‘I do not know, madame, I begin to
think one must live a hundred and fifty years in order to get a
hearing at the Opera.’
“The annoying part is that, thanks to these delays, my work is
getting a sort of advance reputation that may injure it in the end.
“I am getting on with a one-act opera for Baden, written round
Shakespeare’s _Much Ado About Nothing_. It is called _Beatrice and
Benedict_; I promise there shall not be much _Ado_ in the shape of
noise in it. Benazet, the king of Baden, wants it next year.
“An American director has offered me an engagement in the
_Dis_united States; but his proposals are unavailing in view of my
unconquerable antipathy to his great nation, and my love of money
is not sufficiently great to prick me on. I do not know whether
your love for American _utilitarian_ manners and customs is any
more intense than my own.
“In any case, it would be a great mistake to go far from Paris now;
at any moment they might want _The Trojans_.”
* * * * *
“_30th June 1862._--In my bereavement I can write but little.
“My wife is dead--struck down in a moment by heart disease. The
frightful loneliness, after the wrench of this sudden parting, is
indescribable. Forgive me for not saying more.”
_To_ LOUIS BERLIOZ.
“_January 1858._--Perhaps you have heard that a band of ruffians
surrounded the Emperor’s carriage as he went to the opera. They
threw a bomb that killed and wounded both men and horses, but,
by great good luck, did not touch the Emperor; and the charming
Empress did not lose her head for a moment. The courage and
presence of mind of both were perfect.
“I have just had a long letter from M. von Bulow, Liszt’s
son-in-law, who married Mlle. Cosima. He tells me that he performed
my _Cellini_ overture with the greatest success at a Berlin
concert. He is one of the most fervent disciples of that crazy
school of the ‘Music of the Future,’ as they call it in Germany.”
“They stick to it, and want me to be their leader and
standard-bearer, but I write nothing, say nothing, but just let
them go their way. Good sense will teach reasonable people the
truth.”
* * * * *
“_May 1858._--The foreign mail leaves to-morrow, and I must have a
chat with you, dear Louis. I long for news. Are you well? happy?
“Here we are rather miserable. I am somewhat better, but my wife is
nearly always in bed and in pain.”
* * * * *
“_November 1860._--Dear Boy,--Here is a hundred-franc note. Be sure
to acknowledge it. I am thankful you are better. I, too, think my
disease is wearing itself out. I am certainly better since I gave
up remedies. Ideas for my little opera throng in so fast that I
cannot find time to write; sometimes I begin a new one before I
finish the old.”
“You ask how I manage to crowd Shakespeare’s five acts into
one. I have taken only one subject from the play--the part in
which Beatrice and Benedict, who detest each other, are mutually
persuaded of each other’s love, whereby they are inspired with
true passion. The idea is really comic.”
* * * * *
“_14th February 1861._--It worries me to hear of your state of mind.
“I cannot imagine what dreams have made your present life so
impossible. All I can say is that I was, at your age, far from
being as well off as you are.
“Nay, more; I never dared to hope that, so soon after getting your
captain’s certificate, you would find a berth.
“It is natural that you should wish to get on, but sometimes the
chances of one year bring more change into a man’s life than ten
years of strenuous endeavour.
“How can I teach you patience? Your mania for marriage would make
me laugh were I not saddened by seeing you striving after the
heaviest of all fetters and after the sordid vexations of domestic
life--the most hopeless and exasperating of all lives. You are
twenty-six, and have eighteen hundred francs, with a prospect of
rapid promotion. When I married your mother I was thirty, and
had but three hundred francs in the world--lent me by my friend
Gounet--and the balance of my Prix de Rome scholarship.
“Then there were your mother’s debts--nearly fourteen thousand
francs--which I paid off gradually, and the necessity of sending
money to her mother in England, besides which I had quarrelled with
my family, who cast me off, and was trying hard to make my first
small mark in the musical world.
“Compare my hardships with your present discontent! Even now, do
you think it is very lively for me to be bound to this infernal
galley-oar of journalism?
“I am so ill I can hardly hold my pen, yet I am forced to write for
my miserable hundred francs, the while my brain teems with work
and plans and designs that fall dead--thanks to my slavery.
“You are well and strong, while I writhe in ceaseless, incurable
pain. Marie[25] thanks you for your kind messages. She, too, is
ill. Dear boy! you have at least a father, friend, devoted brother,
who loves you more than you seem to think, but who wishes that your
character were firmer, your mind more decided.
* * * * *
“_21st February 1861._--Wagner is turning our singers into goats.
It seems impossible to disentangle this _Tannhäuser_. I hear that
the last general rehearsal was awful, and only finished at one in
the morning. I suppose they will get through somehow.
“Liszt is coming to prop up the charivari.
“I have refused to write the critique, and have asked d’Ortigue to
do it. It is best for every reason, and besides, it will disappoint
them! Never did I have so many windmills to run a-tilt of as I have
this year. I am deluged with fools of every species, and am choking
with anger.
* * * * *
“_5th March 1861._--The _Tannhäuser_ scandal grows apace. Everyone
is raging. Even the Minister left the rehearsal in a towering
passion. The Emperor is far from pleased; yet there are still a few
honest enthusiasts left--even among French people.
“Wagner is decidedly mad. He will die of apoplexy, just as Jullien
did last year.
“Liszt never came after all. I think he expected a fiasco. They
have spent a hundred and sixty thousand francs over mounting the
opera. Well, we shall see what Friday brings forth.”
* * * * *
“_21st March 1861._--The second performance of _Tannhäuser_ was
worse than the first. No more laughter, the audience was too
furious, and, regardless of the presence of the Emperor and
Empress, hissed unmercifully. Coming out, Wagner was vituperated
as a scoundrel, an idiot, an impertinent wretch. If this goes on,
one day the performance will stop abruptly in the middle, and there
will be an end of the whole thing.
“The press is unanimous in damning it.”
* * * * *
“_18th April 1861._--Write, dear Louis, if you can, without the
cruel knife-thrusts you gave me in your last letter.
“I am worse than usual to-day, and have not strength to begin
my article. I had an ovation at the Conservatoire after the
performance of _Faust_. I dined with the Emperor a week ago, and
exchanged a few words with him. I was magnificently bored.”
* * * * *
“_2nd June 1861._--You are worried, and I can do nothing for
you. Alexis is trying to find you a position in Paris, but is
unsuccessful. I am as inefficient as he is. You alone can command
your fate. They wish me to bring out _Alcestis_ at the Opera as I
did _Orpheus_ at the Théâtre Lyrique, and offer me full author’s
rights, but I have refused for various reasons.
“They believe that, for money, artists will stultify their
consciences; I mean to prove that their belief is false.[26]
“My obstinacy has offended many. Instead of amusing themselves by
spoiling Gluck’s _chef d’œuvre_, I wish they would spend their
money over mounting _The Trojans_. But of course they won’t, since
it is the obvious thing to do! Liszt has conquered the Emperor; he
played at Court last week, and has been given the Legion of Honour.
“Ah, if one only plays the piano!”
* * * * *
“_28th October 1861._--Dear Louis,--Did I not know what a terrible
effect disappointment has on even the best characters, I should
really feel inclined to let you have some home truths. You have
wounded me mortally with a deliberate calmness that shows you were
master of your language. But I can forgive, for you are not a bad
son after all.
“You go too far. Is it my fault that I am not rich, that I could
not let you live idly in Paris with a wife and children? Is there
a shadow of justice in reproaching me as you do? For nearly three
months you keep silence, then comes this ironical letter! My poor
dear boy, it is not right.
“Don’t worry about your debt to the tailor; send me the bill and I
will pay him.
“You ask me to beg a post for you. From whom? You know there never
was a more awkward man than I at asking favours.
“Good-bye, dear son, dear friend, dear unlucky boy--unlucky by your
own fault, not by mine.”
* * * * *
“_17th June 1862._--You have received my letter and telegram,[27]
but I write to ask whether you can come to me in Baden on the
6th or 7th August, as I know you would enjoy hearing the last
rehearsals and first performance of my opera. In my leisure moments
you would be my companion, you would see my friends, we should be
together.
“Could you leave your ship so near its date for sailing?
“I am not sure how much money I can send you. The expenses of that
sad ceremony--the transference from St Germain--will be great.
“I am rather afraid, too, of trusting you in a gambling town, but
if you will give me your word of honour not to stake a single
florin I will trust you.
“My mother-in-law came back yesterday just after I had left home
to find only her daughter’s body. She is nearly frantic and is
constantly watched by a friend who came to our help. Think of the
anguish! Write soon, my dear, dear boy.”
* * * * *
“BADEN, _10th August 1862_.--_Beatrice_ was applauded from
end to end, and I was recalled more times than I could count. My
friends were delighted, but I was quite unmoved, for it was one of
my days of excruciating pain and nothing seemed to matter.
“To-day I am better and can enjoy their congratulations.
“You will be pleased too, but why have you left me so long without
a letter? Why do they keep transferring you from boat to boat? Do
not write here again as I soon go back to Paris. Now I am called
and must go and thank my radiant singers.”
_To_ H. FERRAND.
“PARIS, _21st August 1862_.--I am just home from Baden,
where _Beatrice_ obtained a real triumph.
“I always fly to you, be my news good or evil, I am so sure of your
loving interest. Would you had been there! it would have recalled
the night of the _Childhood of Christ_.
“Foes and conspirators stayed in Paris, artists and authors
journeyed to Baden to be present; Madame Charton-Demeur was
perfect, both as singer and actress.
“But can you believe that my neuralgia was too bad that day for me
to take interest in anything? I took my place at the conductor’s
desk, before that cosmopolitan audience, to direct an opera of
which I had written both words and music, absolutely, deadly
impassible. Whereby I conducted better than usual. I was much more
nervous at the second performance.
“Benazet, who always does things royally, spent outrageously in
every department. He has splendidly inaugurated the new theatre
and has created a furore. They want to give _Beatrice_ at the
Opera Comique, but there is no one to do the heroine since Madame
Charton-Demeur is going to America.
“You would laugh at the critiques. People are finding out that I
have melody; that I can be gay--in fact, really comic; that I am
not _noisy_, which is rather obvious, since the heavy instruments
are conspicuous by their absence.
“How much patience I should need were I not so completely
indifferent. Dear friend, I suffer a perfect martyrdom daily from
four in the morning till four in the afternoon. What is to become
of me? I do not tell you this to make you patient under your own
afflictions--my woes are no compensation to you.
“I simply cry unto you as one does to those who love and are loved.
Adieu! Adieu!”
* * * * *
“_26th August 1862._--How I should love to come to you, as Madame
Ferrand wishes! But I have much to do here owing to my wife’s
death, and Louis has resigned his commission and is stranded.
Besides, I am busy enlarging my _Beatrice_.
“I am trying to cut or untie all the bonds that hold me to Art,
that I may be able to say to Death, ‘When thou wilt.’
“I dare not complain when I think of what you bear.
“Are sufferings like ours the inevitable result of our
organisation? Must we be punished for having worshipped the
Beautiful throughout our lives? Probably.
“We have drunk too deeply of the enchanted cup; we have pursued our
ideals too far.
“Still, dear friend, you have a devoted wife to help you to bear
your cross. You know nothing of the dread duet beating, night
and day, into your brain--the joint voices of world-weariness and
isolation!
“God grant you never may! It is saddening music.
“Good-bye! My gathering tears would make me write words that would
grieve you yet more. Again, good-bye!”
* * * * *
“_3rd March 1863._--Your suppositions with regard to my depression
are fortunately wrong; Louis has certainly worried me terribly, but
I have forgiven him; he has found a ship and is now in Mexico.
“No; my trouble was Love. A love unsought that met me smiling, that
I did not seek, that I even fought against for awhile.
“But my loneliness, my unceasing yearning for affection, conquered
me; first I let myself be loved, then I more than loved in return,
and at last a separation became inevitable--a separation absolute
as death. That is all. I am slowly recovering, but health such as
this is sad. I will say no more....
“I am glad my _Beatrice_ pleases you. I am going to Weimar, where
it is now in rehearsal, to conduct a few performances in April,
then I shall come back to this wilderness--Paris.
“Pray, dear friend, that my apathy may become complete, for
otherwise I shall have a hard time while _The Trojans_ is in
rehearsal.
“Good-bye; when I see your dear writing on my desk it calms me for
the day. Never forget that.”
XXXV
THE TROJANS
By this time (1863) I had finished the dramatic work on which I had
been engaged. Four years earlier, being in Weimar with Liszt’s devoted
friend, the Princess of Sayn-Wittgenstein--a woman whose noble heart
and mind had often been my comfort in my darkest hours--I was drawn on
to speak of my love of Virgil and of my wish to compose a grand opera
in Shakespearian style on the second and fourth books of the _Æneid_. I
added that I knew too well the misery and worry that would be my fate
to dare to embark on such a project.
Said the Princess:
“Your passion for Shakespeare and love for the classics would indeed
produce a work both grand and original. You must do it.”
As I demurred, she continued:
“Listen! If you draw back from fear of petty troubles, if you are so
weak as not to suffer in the cause of Cassandra and Dido, come here no
more. I will never see you again!”
Once back in Paris I began the poem of _The Trojans_. Then I started on
the score, and at the end of three years and a half it was finished. As
I polished and repolished it I read it to many of my friends, profiting
by their criticism; then I wrote to the Emperor begging him to read it
and, should he judge it suitable, to use his influence to secure it a
hearing at the Opera.
However, M. de Morny dissuaded me from sending my letter, and when
finally _The Trojans_ saw the footlights the Emperor was not even
present.
After many cruel disappointments with regard to the opera,[28] I at
last succumbed to the persuasion of M. Carvalho and allowed him to set
_The Trojans at Carthage_ (the second section of the opera) at the
Théâtre Lyrique.
Although he received a Government subsidy of a hundred thousand francs
a year, neither his theatre, singers, chorus, nor orchestra was equal
to the task. Both he and I made great sacrifices, and I, out of my
small income, paid some extra musicians and cut up my orchestration to
bring it within his limits.
Madame Charton-Demeur, the only possible woman for Dido, most
generously accepted fees far below those offered her in Madrid,
but despite everything the production was incomplete; indeed, the
sceneshifters made such a muddle of the storm scene that we were
obliged to suppress it entirely.
As I said before, if I am to superintend a really fine representation
I must have an absolutely free hand, and the good-will of every one
around, otherwise I get worn out with storming at opposition, and end
by resigning and letting everything go to the devil as it will.
I cannot describe what Carvalho[29] made me suffer in demanding cuts
that he deemed necessary. When he dared ask no more he worked upon me
through friends, whose niggling, peddling criticism drove me nearly
mad. Said one:
“How about your rhapsodist with the four-stringed lyre? I daresay you
are right as to archæology, but----”
“Well?”
“It is rather dangerous; people are certain to laugh.”
“H’m! laughable is it that an antique lyre should have only four notes?”
Another:
“There is a risky word in your prologue that I fairly tremble over.”
“What’s that?”
“_Triomphaux._”
“Well, why not? Is not it the plural of _triomphal_ just as _chevaux_
is of _cheval_?”
“Yes, but it is not much used.”
“Oh, confound it all! If, in an epic poem, I were to use words suited
to vaudevilles and variety shows, I should not have much choice of
language.”
“Well, people will certainly laugh.”
“Ha! ha! triomphaux! It is really almost as funny as Molière’s _tarte à
la crême_. Ha! ha!”
A third:
“I say! You really must _not_ let Æneas come on in a helmet.”
“And why not?”
“Why, Mangin, the gutter pencil-seller, wears one. Certainly his is a
mediæval one, but that doesn’t matter. The gallery cads will certainly
howl ‘Hallo! there’s Mangin!’
“I see--a Trojan hero may not wear a helmet, lest he should be like
Mangin!”
Number four:
“Old fellow, do something to please me!”
“What is it now?”
“Suppress Mercury. Those wings on his head and his heels are really
too comical. No one ever saw anybody with wings anywhere but on their
shoulders.”
“Ah, you have seen people with wings on their shoulders? I have not,
but I can quite understand that wings in unexpected places are awkward.
One does not often meet Mercury strolling about the streets of Paris.”
Can any one conceive what these crass idiots made me endure? In
addition, I had to fight the musical ideas of Carvalho, who could not
believe that, after studying opera for forty years, I knew just a
little about it.
The actors alone loyally abstained from worrying me, for which
forbearance I give them all most hearty thanks.
The first performance took place on the 4th November 1863. There was
no hostile demonstration except the hissing of one man, and he kept on
regularly up to the tenth night. Five papers said everything insulting
that they could think of, but, on the other hand, fifty articles
of admiring criticism--among them those of my friends, Gasperini,
d’Ortigue, L. Kreutzer, and Damcke--filled me with a joyous pride to
which I had too long been a stranger.
I also received many appreciative letters, and was frequently stopped
in the street by strangers who begged to shake hands with the author of
_The Trojans_.
Were these not compensations for the diatribes of my foes? In spite of
the cutting and polishing (I called it mutilation) that my _Trojans_
suffered at the hands of Carvalho, it only ran twenty-one nights. The
receipts did not reach his expectations; he cancelled the engagement of
Madame Charton-Demeur, who left for Madrid, and to my great comfort my
work disappeared from the play-bills.
Nevertheless, being both author and composer, my royalties for those
twenty-one performances and the sale of the piano score in Paris and
London amounted--to my unspeakable joy--to about the annual income I
derived from the _Journal des Débats_, and I was, therefore, able to
resign my post as critic.
Freedom, after thirty years of slavery! No more articles to concoct,
no more platitudes to excuse, no more commonplaces to extol, no more
righteous wrath to bottle up, no more lies, no more farces, no more
cowardly compromises! Free! I need never more set foot in theatre!
Gloria in excelsis! Thanks to _The Trojans_ the wretched quill-driver
is free!!
* * * * *
My _Beatrice_, having been a success at Baden in August 1862, was
translated into German, and, at the request of the Grand Duchess of
Saxe-Weimar, was given at Weimar in April 1863. Their Serene Highnesses
desired me to direct the two first performances, and, as usual,
overwhelmed me with kindness.
So did the Prince of Hohenzollern-Hechingen, who sent his Kapellmeister
to invite me to conduct a concert at Löwenberg, his present residence.
He told me that his orchestra knew all my symphonies, and wished for a
programme drawn exclusively from my own works.
“Your Highness,” I said, “since your orchestra knows all, be pleased to
choose for yourself. I will conduct whatever you wish.”
He therefore chose _King Lear_, the festival and love-scene from
_Romeo_, the _Carnaval Romain_ overture, and _Harold in Italy_. As he
had no harpist, Madame Pohl of Weimar, with her husband, was invited.
The Prince had greatly changed since my visit in 1842; he was a martyr
to gout, and was, after all, unable to be present at the concert he had
planned. He was keenly disappointed, for, said he, “You are not a mere
conductor; you are the orchestra itself; it is hard that I cannot reap
the benefit of your stay here.”
He has built a splendid music-room in the castle, with a musical
library; the orchestra is composed of about fifty _musical_ musicians,
and their conductor, M. Seifriz, is both patient and talented. They
are not worried with lesson-giving, church or theatre work, but belong
exclusively to the Prince.
My rooms were close to the concert hall, and the first afternoon, at
four, a servant came to say:
“Monsieur, the orchestra awaits you.”
There I found the forty-five silent artists, instruments in hand and
all in tune!!
They rose courteously to receive me, _King Lear_ was on the desk,
I raised my baton and everything went with spirit, smoothness, and
precision, so that--not having heard the piece for ten or twelve
years--I said to myself in amazement: “It is tremendous! Can I really
have written it?”
The rest was just as good, and I said to the players:
“Gentlemen, to rehearse with you is simply a farce; I have not a single
objection to make.”
The Kapellmeister played the viola solo of _Harold_ perfectly (in the
other pieces he returned to his violin), and I can truly say that never
have I heard it more perfectly done.