really understood during the last ten or twelve years.
“I never read the papers, so tell me where you saw those nice
things you quote about me.
“Do you know that Liszt has become an abbé?
“You shall have a stitched copy of my _Mémoires_ as soon as I get
one, but I must have your solemn promise not to let it out of your
own hands, and to return it when you have read it.”
_To_ M. AND MME DAMCKE.[32]
“HÔTEL DE LA MÉTROPOLE, GENEVA, _22nd August 1865_.--Dear
Friends,--I only write lest you should think yourselves forgotten.
You know I do not easily forget, and, if I did, I could never lose
remembrance of such friends as you.
“I am strangely and indescribably agitated here.
“Sometimes quite calm, at others full of uneasiness--even pain.
I was most cordially welcomed. They like me to be with them, and
chide me when I keep away.
“I stay there sometimes four hours at a time. We go long walks
beside the lake. Yesterday we took a drive, but I am never alone
with her, so can speak only of outward things, and I feel that the
oppression of my heart will kill me.
“What can I do? I am unjust, stupid, unreasonable.
“They have all read the _Mémoires_. _She_ reproached me mildly for
publishing her letters, but her daughter-in-law said I was quite
right, and I believe she was not really vexed.
“Already I dread the moment of departure. It is charming country,
and the lake is most beautiful, pure and deep; yet I know something
deeper, purer, and yet more beautiful....
“Adieu, dear friends.”
_To_ MADAME MASSART.
“PARIS, _15th September 1865_.--Good afternoon, madame.
How are you, and how is Massart?
“I am quite at sea, not finding you here.
“I have come back from Geneva just as ill as I went.
“At first I was better, but after a little the pain came again
worse than ever.
“How lucky you are to be free from such trouble! Having a moment’s
respite, I use it in writing to you.”
“You will either laugh, saying--or say, laughing, ‘Why write to me?’
“Probably you would rather that this preposterous idea had not
entered my head, but there it is, and, if you find it mistimed, you
have the remedy in your own hands--not to answer.
“All the same, the inner meaning of my letter is--to extract one
from you. If only you could conceive the frightful impetuosity with
which one bores oneself in Paris!
“I am alone, more than alone. I hear never a note of music--nothing
but gibberish to right of me, gibberish to left of me. When will
you be back? When shall I hear you play a sonata again? I often
talked of you in Geneva, where I was petted, spoilt--and scolded a
little, too.
“When you come back we will gather together our choice spirits, our
good men and true, and read _Coriolanus_. I only really _live_ in
watching the enthusiasm of fresh sympathetic souls--undeadened by
the world.
“I quite enjoyed at Vienne making my nieces cry over it. They are
dear girls, impressionable as a photographic plate--which is rather
odd, seeing that they have always lived in that most provincial of
provinces, among utterly anti-literary people.
“My thick autobiography awaits you, but remember, it is yours only
for the time it takes you and Massart to read it. It is very sad,
but very true.
“I am quite ashamed that I had not the sense to speak of the many
calm, sweet hours I owe to you, and of my deep affection for you
both. I have only just noticed that you are not even mentioned.
“Ah, the pain! Madame, forgive me. I can write no more!”
_To_ LOUIS BERLIOZ.
“_13th November 1865._--Dear Boy,--Your letter has just come, and I
want to reply before I go back to bed.
“How I suffer! If I could I would fly off to Palermo or to Nice.
“It is horrible weather. I have to light a lamp at half-past three.
“To-night is our Monday dinner, and as I shall have to get up and
go to it, I want to snatch a little sleep first.
“I have had no letter from Geneva, but I did not expect one. When
one comes my heart lightens and my spirits rise.
“My poor, dear boy. What should I do without you?
“Can you believe that I always loved you, even when you were tiny?
I, who find it so difficult to like little children!
“There was always some attraction that drew me to you.
“It weakened when you got to the stupid stage and were a
hobbledehoy. Since then it has come back, has increased, and now,
as you know, I love you, and my love grows daily.”
_To_ H. FERRAND.
“_17th January 1866._--I am alone in the chimney corner writing to
you.
“I was greatly excited this morning by the manager of the Théâtre
Lyrique, who has asked me to supervise his intended revival of
_Armida_. It will hardly suit his pettifogging world.
“Madame Charton-Demeurs, who undertakes the overpowering rôle of
Armida, comes every day to rehearse with M. Saint-Saëns, a great
pianist, a great musician, who knows his Gluck almost as well as I
do.
“It is curious to see the poor lady floundering blindly in the
sublime, and to watch the gradually dawning light.
“This morning, in the Hatred scene, Saint-Saëns and I could only
grasp hands in silence--we were breathless!
“Never did human being find such expression! And to think that
this masterpiece is vilified, blasphemed, insulted, attacked on
all sides, even by those who profess to admire it. It belongs to
another world. Why are you not here to enjoy it too!
“Will you believe that since I have taken to music again my pains
have departed?
“I get up every day just like other people. But I have quite enough
to endure with the actors, and, above all, with the conductor. It
is coming out in April.
“Madame Fournier writes that a friend she met in Geneva spoke
warmly of _The Trojans_. That is good, but I should have done
better if I had written one of Offenbach’s atrocities.
“What will those toads of Parisians say to _Armida_?”
* * * * *
“_8th March 1866._--Dear Humbert,--I am answering you this morning
simply to tell you what happened yesterday at a great charity
concert--with trebled prices--in the Cirque Napoléon, under
Pasdeloup.
“They played the great Septuor from _The Trojans_, Madame Charton
sang; there was a chorus of a hundred and fifty, and the usual fine
orchestra.
“The whole programme was miserably received except the _Lohengrin_
March, and the overture to the _Prophet_ was so hissed that the
police had to turn out the malcontents.
“Then came the Septuor. Endless applause, and an encore.
“The second time it went even better. The audience spied me on my
three-franc bench (they had not honoured me with a ticket). There
were more calls, shouts, waving of hats and handkerchiefs.
“‘_Vive Berlioz!_’ they cried. ‘Get up;
we want to see you.’
“I, the while, trying to hide myself!
“Coming out, a crowd surrounded me on the boulevard. This morning
many callers, and a charming letter from Legouvé’s daughter.
“Liszt was there. I saw him from my perch. He has just come from
Rome. Why were you not there too?
“There were at least three thousand people. Once I should have been
pleased....
“The effect was grand, particularly the sound of the sea
(impossible to give on the piano) at the passage:
‘And the sleeping sea
Whispers in dreams her sweet deep chords.’
“It touched me profoundly.
“My gallery neighbours, hearing that I was the author of it,
pressed my hands and thanked me.
“Why were you not there?”
* * * * *
“_9th March._--Just a word added to what I wrote yesterday.
“A few amateurs have written me a round-robin of congratulation.
The letter is a slightly altered copy of that which I wrote to
Spontini twenty-two years ago about his _Fernando Cortez_.
“Is it not a pretty idea to apply to me what I said to him so long
ago?”
_To_ MADAME MASSART.
“_3rd September 1866._--Such a misfortune, dear madame! This
morning--yes, really only this morning--I composed the most clever
and complimentary letter to you--a master-piece of delicate, dainty
flattery. Then I went to sleep and--when I awoke it was all gone,
and I am reduced to mere commonplaces.
“I will not speak of the boredom you must be suffering in your
little card-board bandbox by the sea, lest I should drive you to
commit suicide--by no means a suitable way out of the difficulty
for a pretty woman!
“Yet, what on earth _are_ you to do?
“You have gone the round of Beethoven over and over again; you have
read Homer; you know some of Shakespeare’s best works; you see the
sea every day; you have friends and a husband who worships you.
“Great heavens, what _is_ to become of you?
“I do my best to make your sea-side life bearable by not coming
near you. Can I do more?
“I ought to be at Geneva, but a cousin of mine is going to be
married next week and wants me to be one of his witnesses.
“Could I refuse? One ought to help relations out of difficulties!
“Perrin also wishes me to superintend the rehearsals of _Alcestis_,
but he dawdles so, waiting for Society to come back to Paris (as if
there were Society for _Alcestis_!), that I am going to leave him
stranded and start for Geneva.
“Ah! dear lady, how glorious it is! how grand! The other day at
rehearsal we all wept like stags at bay.
“‘What a man Gluck was!’ cried Perrin.
“‘No,’ said I, ‘_we_ are the men. Don’t
get confused.’
“Taylor said yesterday that Gluck had more heart than Homer; truly,
he is more thoroughly human.
“And we are going to offer this food for the gods to pure idiots!
“Is Massart shooting, fishing, painting, building, dreaming?
“He has covered himself with glory. His pupils have carried off all
the prizes this year; he can wallow in laurels, though he certainly
might find a more comfortable bed!
“Here ends my scribble; I press your learned hand.”
_To_ HUMBERT FERRAND.
“_10th November 1866._--Dear Humbert,--I ought to be in Vienna,
but the concert is put off. I suppose that _Faust_ was not learnt
to their satisfaction, and they only wish me to hear it when it is
nearly ready.
“It will be a real joy to listen to it again; I have not heard the
whole of it since it was performed twelve years ago in Dresden.
“The _Alcestis_ rehearsals have done me good; never did it appear
so grand, and surely never before was it so finely rendered.
“A whole new generation has arisen to worship.
“The other day a lady near me sobbed so violently that every one
around noticed her, and I got crowds of letters thanking me for my
devoted care for Gluck.
“Ingres is not the only one of our Institute colleagues who comes
constantly; most of the painters and sculptors love the beautiful
Antique, of which the very sorrow is not disfiguring.
“I am sending you the pocket-score; you will easily read it and I
am sure will enjoy it.”
_To_ M. ERNEST REYER.
“VIENNA, _17th December 1866_.--Dear Reyer,--I only got up
at four to-day, as yesterday over-did me.
“It would be foolish of me to describe the recalls, encores,
tears, and flowers I received after the performance of _Faust_ in
the _Salle de la Redoute_; I had a chorus of three hundred, an
orchestra of a hundred and fifty, and splendid soloists.
“This evening there is to be a grand fête; three hundred artists
and amateurs--among them the hundred and fifty lady-amateurs who,
with their sweet fresh voices, sang my choruses.
“How well, too, they had been trained by Herbeck, who first thought
of giving my work in its entirety, and who would let himself be
chopped in pieces for me.
“To-morrow I am invited by the Conservatoire to hear Helmesberger
conduct my _Harold_.
“This has been the most perfect musical joy of my life, so forgive
me if I say too much!
“Well! this is one score saved at any rate. They can play it now in
Vienna under Herbeck, who knows it by heart.
“The Paris Conservatoire may leave me in outer darkness and stick
to its antiquated repertoire if it likes.
“You have drawn down this tirade on your own head by asking me to
write!
“Good-bye; I have been invited to Breslau to conduct _Romeo and
Juliet_, but I must get back to Paris before the end of the month.”
_To_ HUMBERT FERRAND.
“PARIS, _11th January 1867_.--It is midnight, dear friend.
I write in bed, as usual; you will read my letter in bed--also as
usual.
“Your last letter hurt me; I read the suffering between the lines.
I wanted to reply at once, but my tortures, medical stupidity,
doses of laudanum (all useless and productive only of evil dreams),
prevented me.
“I see now how difficult it will be for us to meet. You cannot
stir, and for three quarters of the year I cannot either. What are
we to do?
“My journey to Vienna nearly made an end of me--even the warmth of
their enthusiasm could not protect me from the rigours of their
winter. This awful climate will be the death of me.
“Dear Louis writes of his morning rides in the forests of
Martinique, and describes the lovely tropical vegetation--the real
hot sun. That is what you and I both need.
“Dear friend, the dull rumbling of passing carriages breaks the
silence of the night. Paris is damp, cold, and muddy--Parisian
Paris!
“Now all is still; it sleeps the sleep of the unrighteous.
“Have you the full score of my _Mass for the Dead_? If I were
threatened with the destruction of all that I have ever written, it
would be for that Mass that I should beg life.
“Good-bye; I shall lie awake and think of you.”
_To_ FERDINAND HILLER.
“PARIS, _8th February 1867_.--Dear Hiller,--You are the
best of good friends!
“I will do as you bid me; take my courage in both hands, and on the
23rd start for Cologne.
“I shall be at the Hotel Royal by evening, but do not engage
_rooms_ for me, one tiny one is enough.
“If I cannot possibly travel, I will send on the orchestral
score of the duet from _Beatrice_. It is very effective and not
difficult--almost any singers could manage it, provided they were
not geese.
“To be sure, we both have an intimate acquaintance with these
winged fowl!
“You talk like the doctors. ‘It is neuralgia.’
“That is just like Madame Sand and her gardener.
“She told him the garden wall had tumbled down.
“‘Oh, it is nothing, madame, the frost
did it.’
“‘Yes, but it must be rebuilt.’
“‘It’s only the frost, that’s all.’
“‘I do not say it is not the frost, but
there it is on the ground.’
“‘Don’t worry about it, madame, the
frost did it.’
“I can write no more. I must go to bed.”
_To_ H. FERRAND.
“_11th June 1867._--Thanks for your letter, dear friend, it did me
good.
“Yes, I am in Paris, but so ill I can hardly write. Besides, I am
worried about Louis, who is in Mexico, and I do not know what those
Mexican ruffians may not be up to.
“The Exhibition is turning Paris into an Inferno. I have not been
there yet, for I can hardly walk.
“Yesterday there was a great function at Court, but I was too weak
to dress and go to it....
“I wrote so far at the Conservatoire, where I was one of the jury
in awarding the Exhibition musical prize. We heard a hundred and
four cantatas, and I had the very great pleasure of seeing the
prize unanimously awarded to my young friend, Camille Saint-Saëns,
one of the greatest musicians of our time.
“I have been urgently pressed to go to New York where, say the
Americans, I am popular. They played _Harold_ five times last year
with success truly _Viennese_.
“I am quite elated with our jury meeting. How happy Saint-Saëns
will be! I hurried off to tell him, but he was out with his mother.
“He is an astounding pianist.
“Well! at last our musical world has done something sensible; it
makes me feel quite strong, I could not have written you such a
long letter were it not for my joy.”
XXXVIII
DARKNESS AND LIGHT
_To_ H. FERRAND.
“_30th June 1867._--A terrible grief has fallen upon me. My poor
boy, at thirty-three captain of a fine vessel, has just died at
Havana.”
* * * * *
“_15th July 1867._--Just a few words, since you ask for them; but
it is wrong of me to sadden you too.
“I am so much worse that I am really hardly alive and have barely
sense enough to grasp poor Louis’ business affairs; fortunately one
of his friends is helping me. Thanks for your letter; forgive my
stupidity. I am fit for nothing but sleep.
“Adieu, adieu!”
_To_ MADAME DAMCKE at Montreux.
“PARIS, _24th September 1867_.--Dear Madame Damcke,--I
should have written sooner had I known your address, therefore
double thanks for your letter.
“My answer is short; I am as ill as usual.
“After my fifth bath at Néris the doctor, hearing me speak, felt my
pulse and cried:
“‘Be off out of this as fast as you
can; the waters are the worst possible for you, you are on the
verge of laryngitis. Confound it all, it is really serious.’
“So off I went the same evening and was nearly choked by a fit of
coughing in the train.
“My nieces at Vienne nursed me devotedly but, when my throat got
better, back came my neuralgia more fiendishly than ever.
“I stayed long enough to see my elder niece married. Thirty-three
relations came from all parts to the wedding--but _one_, alas! was
missing.
“The one I most rejoiced to see was my old uncle, the colonel. He
is eighty-four. We both wept on meeting; he seemed almost ashamed
of still being alive--how much more, then, should I!
“I spend most of my time in bed, but the Grand Duchess Helen is
coaxing me to get up and go to St Petersburg. She wishes to see
me and I have agreed to go on the 15th November and conduct six
concerts. Best wishes to you both.”
_To_ M. AND MME MASSART.
“PARIS, _4th October 1867_.--Yes, it is quite true. I am
going to Russia. The Grand Duchess Helen was here the other day
and made me such generous proposals that, after some hesitation, I
accepted. I am to conduct six Conservatoire concerts; five of the
grandest works of the great masters and the sixth entirely of my
own compositions.
“I am to have rooms in her palace and the use of one of her
carriages; she pays all my travelling expenses and gives me fifteen
thousand francs.
“I shall be tired to death--ill as I am already. Will you not come
too? You should play your jovial Bach concerto in D minor and we
would enjoy ourselves.
“Three days ago an American,[33] hearing that I had accepted the
Russian engagement, came and offered me a hundred thousand francs
to go to New York next year. What do you think of that? Meanwhile,
he has had a bronze bust of me cast, to place in a splendid hall
that he has built over there.
“If I were younger it would please me greatly.
“My mother-in-law thanks you for your kind messages. Are you not
ashamed of slaughtering pheasants? It is a noble thing, forsooth,
to go out into the poultry yard and kill off the chickens!!!
Despite all, my friendship holds good, faithful and warm. Each day
I appreciate more thoroughly your loving hearts.”
_To the Same._
“PARIS, _2nd November 1867_.--How are you, my lord and my
lady?
“How is your house?
“Have you forgotten your French?
“Have you forgotten your music?
“Have you forgotten how to write?
“Have you forgotten that you hear of nothing?
“Have you forgotten that we have forgotten you?
“Can you believe that we get on perfectly well without you?
“Can you believe that you are....
“Out of fashion?
“Good-night.”
* * * * *
“_2nd November._--Day of the dead, and, when one is dead, one is
dead for a long, long time.”
_To_ H. FERRAND.[34]
“_22nd October 1867._--Dear Humbert,--Here is the letter you asked
me to return. Only a line to-day as I took laudanum last night and
have not had time yet to sleep it off. I had to get up this morning
to do some necessary business.
“So now back to bed. A thousand greetings.”
_To_ M. EDOUARD ALEXANDRE.
“ST PETERSBURG, _15th December 1867_.--Dear friends,--How
kind of you to send me your news; it seems neglectful of me not to
have done the same ere this.
“I am loaded with favour by everyone--from the Grand Duchess down
to the least member of the orchestra.
“They found out that the 11th was my birthday and sent me
delightful presents. In the evening I was asked to a banquet of
a hundred and fifty guests where, as you may imagine, I was well
toasted. Both public and press are most eulogistic. At the second
concert I was recalled six times after the _Symphonie Fantastique_,
which was executed with tremendous spirit and the last part of
which was encored.
“What an orchestra! what _ensemble_! what precision! I wonder if
Beethoven ever heard anything like it. In spite of my pain, as
soon as I reach the conductor’s desk and am surrounded by these
sympathetic souls, I revive and I believe am conducting now as I
never did before.
“Yesterday we did the second act of _Orfeo_, the _C. minor
Symphony_ and my _Carnaval Romain_. All was grandly done. The girl
who sang Orfeo in Russian had an unequalled voice and sang well too.
“These poor Russians only knew Gluck from mutilated fragments, so
you may imagine my pleasure in drawing aside the curtain that hid
his mighty genius.
“In a fortnight we are to do the first act of _Alcestis_. The Grand
Duchess has ordered that I am to be implicitly obeyed; I do not
abuse her order, but I use it.
“She has asked me to go some day and read her _Hamlet_, and the
other day I happened to speak to her ladies-in-waiting, in her
presence, of Saint-Victor’s book and now they are all rushing off
to buy and admire _Hommes et Dieux_.
“Here they love the beautiful; they live for literature and music;
they have within them a constant flame that makes them lose
consciousness of the frost and the snow.
“Why am I so old, so worn-out?
“Good-bye all. I love you and press your hands.”
_To_ M. AND MME MASSART.
“ST PETERSBURG, _22/10 December 1867_.--Dear Madame
Massart,--I am ill with eighteen horse power; I cough like six
donkeys with the glanders; yet, before I retire to bed, I want to
write to you.
“All goes well here.
“At the fifth concert I want to give Beethoven’s _Choral Symphony_,
at least the first three parts, I am afraid to risk the vocal part
as I am not sufficiently sure of my chorus.
“I have been invited to Moscow and the Grand Duchess permits me to
go.
“The gentlemen of the semi-Asiatic capital propound the most
irresistible arguments _tace_ Wieniawski, who does not wish me to
jump at their offer. But I never could haggle and should be ashamed
to do so now.
“I have just been interrupted by a message from the Grand Duchess.
She has a musical soirée to-night and wishes to hear the duet
from _Beatrice_. Her pianist and two singers know it perfectly in
French, so I have sent the score, with a message to them not to be
nervous as they will get through all right.
“I shall go back to bed. I would tell you a lot more but I am tired
out and am not used to being up at such unreasonable hours.
“It is half-past nine. I shall take some laudanum to be sure of
sleep.
“You know that you are charming. But why the devil _are_ you so
charming? Farewell, I am your
H. B.”
_To the Same._
“_18th January 1868._
“DEAR MADAME MASSART,--I found quite a pile of letters on
my return from Moscow, among them one that gave me even greater
pleasure than yours; you can guess from whom it came.
“Yours, nevertheless, rejoices me too.
“The Michael Square is noiseless under its snowy mantle; crows,
pigeons and sparrows stir not; sledges have ceased to run; there is
a great funeral--that of Prince Dolgorouki--at which the Emperor
and all the Court were present.
“My programme for Saturday is settled.
“Oh! the joy when I lay down my baton at the end of _Harold_ and
say:
“‘In three days I start for Paris.’
“I cannot stand this climate, although I felt better in Moscow.
Such enthusiasm there!
“The first concert was in the Riding School and there were ten
thousand six hundred people present. And when they applauded the
Offertory from my _Requiem_, with its two-note chorus, I must own
that the uncommon religious feeling shown by that mighty crowd,
went to my heart.
“Do not speak of a concert in Paris.
“If I _gave_ one to my friends and spent three thousand francs over
it I should only be the more reviled by the press.
“After seeing you I shall go right on to St Symphorien and thence
to Monaco to roll in the violets and sleep in the sun.
“I suffer so continually, dear lady; my paroxysms of pain are so
frequent that I cannot think what is to become of me.
“I do not want to die now, for I have something to live for.”[35]
_To_ WLADIMIR STASSOFF.
“PARIS, _1st March 1868_.--I did not write sooner, I was
too ill. And now I want to tell you that I am leaving for Monaco at
seven this evening.
“I cannot imagine why I do not die.
“But since I am living, I am going to see my dear Nice, the rocks
of Villefranche and the sun of Monaco.
“I hear that the sculptor is having three copies of my New York
bust cast; was it you who suggested getting one for the St
Petersburg Conservatoire? More can easily be made.
“Address your letters to me to 4 Rue de Calais, Paris, and they
will be forwarded.