In the preface to Berlioz's published Correspondence, is the following
account of Liszt's evenings with the great French composer and his first
wife:
"The first years of their married life were full of both hardship and
charm. The new establishment, the revenues of which amounted, to begin
with, to a lump sum of 300 francs, was migratory--at one time in the Rue
Neuve Saint-Marc, at another at Montmartre, and then in a certain Rue
Saint-Denis of which it is impossible now to find trace. Liszt lived in
the Rue de Province, and paid frequent visits to the young couple; they
spent many evenings together, when the great pianist would play
Beethoven's sonatas in the dark, in order to produce a greater
impression. In his turn, Berlioz took up the cudgels for his friend
in the newspapers to which he was accustomed to contribute--the
_Correspondent_, the _Revue Europeenne_ and, lastly, the _Debats_. How
angry he became when the volatile Parisians attempted to espouse the
cause of Thalberg against his rival! A lion showing his teeth could not
have appeared more formidable. Death to him who dared to say Liszt was
not the first pianist of all time, past, present, and to come! And when
the critic enunciated any musical axiom as being beyond discussion, he
really thought it so, for he never went against his own convictions, and
bore himself in regard to mediocrities with a contempt savouring
of rudeness. Liszt after all gave him back measure for measure,
transcribing the Symphonie Fantastique, and playing at the numerous
concerts which the young maestro gave during the winter with ever
increasing success."
In 1830, after many repeated failures Berlioz won the much coveted "Prix
de Rome" at the Paris Conservatoire, which entitled him to reside three
years in Italy at the expense of the French Government. Before he
started for the musical land of promise, Berlioz gave two concerts, and
relates in his Memoirs the circumstances under which he first became
acquainted with Liszt:
"On the day before the concert I received a visit from Liszt, whom I had
never yet seen. I spoke to him of Goethe's Faust, which he was obliged
to confess he had not read, but about which he soon became as
enthusiastic as myself. We were strongly attracted to one another, and
our friendship has increased in warmth and depth ever since. He was
present at the concert, and excited general attention by his applause
and enthusiasm."
When Berlioz gave his first concert in Paris, after his return from
Italy, he wrote:
"Weber's Concertstueck, played by Liszt with the overpowering vehemence
which he always puts into it, obtained a splendid success. Indeed I so
far forgot myself, in my enthusiasm for Liszt, as publicly to embrace
him on the stage--a stupid impropriety which might have covered us both
with ridicule had the spectators been disposed to laugh."
Liszt's and Berlioz's intimacy was renewed at Prague, as will be seen
from the composer's account:
"I gave six concerts at Prague, either in the theatre or in Sophie's
concert room. At the latter I remember to have had the delight of
performing my symphony of Romeo and Juliet for Liszt for the first time.
Several movements of the work were already known in Prague....
"That day, having already encored several pieces, the public called for
another, which the band implored me not to repeat; but as the shouts
continued Mr. Mildner took out his watch, and held it up to show that
the hour was too far advanced to allow of the orchestra remaining till
the end of the concert if the piece was played a second time, since
there was an opera at 7 o'clock. This clever pantomime saved us. At the
end of the seance, just as I was begging Liszt to serve as my
interpreter, and thank the excellent singers, who had been devoting
themselves to the careful study of my choruses for the last three weeks
and had sung them so bravely, he was interrupted by them with an inverse
proposal. Having exchanged a few words with them in German, he turned to
me and said: 'My commission is changed; these gentlemen rather desire me
to thank you for the pleasure you have given them in allowing them to
perform your work, and to express their delight at your evident
satisfaction.'"
At a banquet in honour of Berlioz the composer says:
"Liszt was unanimously chosen to make the presentation speech instead of
the chairman, who had not sufficient acquaintance with the French
language. At the first toast he made me, in the name of the assembly, an
address at least a quarter of an hour long, with a warmth of spirit, an
abundance of ideas and a choice of expressions, which excited the envy
of the orators present, and by which I was profoundly touched.
Unhappily, if he spoke well, he also drank well--the treacherous cup
inaugurated by the convives held such floods of champagne that all
Liszt's eloquence made shipwreck in it. Belloni and I were still in the
streets of Prague at 2 o'clock in the morning persuading him to wait for
daylight before exchanging shots at two paces with a Bohemian who had
drunk better than himself. When day came we were not without anxiety
about Liszt, whose concert was to take place at noon. At half-past
eleven he was still sleeping; at last some one awoke him; he jumped into
a cab, reached the hall, was received with three rounds of applause and
played as I believe he has never played in his life before."
Berlioz, in his A Travers Chants, relates the following incident:
"One day Liszt was playing the adagio of Beethoven's sonata in C-sharp
minor before a little circle of friends, of which I formed part, and
followed the manner he had then adopted to gain the applause of the
fashionable world. Instead of those long sustained notes, and instead of
strict uniformity of rhythm, he overlaid it with trills and the tremolo.
I suffered cruelly, I must confess--more than I have ever suffered in
hearing our wretched cantatrices embroider the grand air in the
'Freischuetz'; for to this torture was added my distress at seeing an
artist of his stamp falling into the snare which, as a rule, only besets
mediocrities. But what was to be done? Liszt was then like a child, who
when he stumbles, likes to have no notice taken, but picks himself up
without a word and cries if anybody holds him out a hand. He had picked
himself up splendidly. A few years afterward one of those men of heart
and soul that artists are always happy to come across (Mr. Legouve), had
invited a small party of friends--I was one of them.
"Liszt came during the evening, and finding the conversation engaged on
the valuable piece by Weber, and why when he played it at a recent
concert he had received a rather sorry reception, he went to the piano
to reply in this manner to Weber's antagonists. The argument was
unanswerable, and we were obliged to acknowledge that a work of genius
was misunderstood. As he was about to finish, the lamp which lighted the
apartment appeared very soon to go out; one of us was going to relight
it: 'Leave it alone,' I said to him; 'if he will play the adagio of
Beethoven's sonata in C-sharp minor this twilight will not spoil it.'
"'Willingly,' said Liszt; 'but put the lights out altogether; cover the
fire that the obscurity may be more complete.' Then, in the midst of
darkness, after a moment's pause, rose in its sublime simplicity the
noble elegy he had once so strangely disfigured; not a note, not an
accent was added to the notes and the accents of the author. It was the
shade of Beethoven, conjured up by the virtuoso to whose voice we were
listening. We all trembled in silence, and when the last chord had
sounded no one spoke--we were in tears."
Berlioz in a letter to Liszt wrote as follows to the pianist on his
playing:
"On my return from Heckingen I stayed some days longer at Stuttgart, a
prey to new perplexities. You, my dear Liszt, know nothing of these
uncertainties; it matters little to you whether the town to which you go
has a good orchestra, whether the theatre be open or the manager place
it at your disposal, etc. Of what use indeed would such information be
to you? With a slight modification of the famous mot of Louis XIV you
may say with confidence, I myself am orchestra, chorus, and conductor. I
make my piano dream or sing at pleasure, re-echo with exulting harmonies
and rival the most skilful bow in swiftness. Neither theatre, nor long
rehearsals, for I want neither musicians nor music.
"Give me a large room and a grand piano, and I am at once master of a
great audience. I have but to appear before it to be overwhelmed with
applause. My memory awakens, my fingers give birth to dazzling
fantasias, which call forth enthusiastic acclamations. I have but to
play Schubert's Ave Maria or Beethoven's Adelaide to draw every heart to
myself, and make each one hold his breath. The silence speaks;
admiration is intense and profound. Then come the fiery shells, a
veritable bouquet of grand fireworks, the acclamations of the public,
flowers and wreaths showered upon the priest of harmony as he sits
quivering on his tripod, beautiful young women kissing the hem of his
garment with tears of sacred frenzy; the sincere homage of the serious,
the feverish applause forced from the envious, the intent faces, the
narrow hearts amazed at their own expansiveness. And perhaps next day
the inspired young genius departs, leaving behind him a trail of
dazzling glory and enthusiasm. It is a dream! It is one of those golden
dreams inspired by the name of Liszt or Paganini. But the composer who,
like myself, must travel to make his work known, has, on the contrary,
to nerve himself to a task which is never ending, still beginning, and
always unpleasant."
The well-known dramatist, Scribe, once wrote a libretto for Berlioz, but
in consequence of some difficulty with the director of the Paris Grand
Opera he demanded the return of the work, and handed it over to Gounod,
who subsequently wrote the music. Berlioz devotes some space to these
proceedings in his Memoirs, and in the course of his remarks says:
"When I saw Scribe, on my return to Paris, he seemed slightly confused
at having accepted my offer, and taken back my poem. 'But, as you know,'
said he, 'Il faut que le pretre vive de l'autel.' Poor fellow! he could
not, in fact, have waited; he has only some 200,000 or 300,000 per
annum, a house in town, three country houses etc. Liszt made a capital
pun when I repeated Scribe's speech to him. 'Yes,' said he, 'by his
hotel'--comparing Scribe to an innkeeper."