XXI MARRIAGE

After spending the summer in Dauphiny, copying my monodrama, I went on to Paris, hoping to give two concerts before starting on my German wanderings.

Apropos of the Chorus of Shades in this same composition, a rather comical thing happened in Rome. In order to have it printed it was necessary for it to pass the Papal censor. Now for this language of the dead, incomprehensible to the living, I had written pure gibberish (I have since substituted French, saving my unknown tongue for the Damnation de Faust) of which the censor demanded a translation.

They tried a German, who could make nothing of it; an Englishman, the same; Danes, Swedes, Russians, Spaniards—equally useless. Deadlock at the censorial office! At last, after much cogitation one of the officials evolved an argument that appealed forcibly and convincingly to his colleagues: “Since none of these people understand the language, perhaps the Romans will not understand it either. In that case I think we might authorise the printing, without danger to religion or morals.”

So the Shades got printed. Oh reckless censors! Suppose it had been Sanscrit!

One of my first visits in Paris was to Cherubini, whom I found much aged and enfeebled. He received me with such affection that I was quite disarmed and said:

“I fear me the poor man is nigh unto death!”

It was not long before I found my forebodings quite uncalled for; as far as I was concerned he was as lively as ever.

As my old rooms in the Rue Richelieu were let, some influence compelled me to cross the road to the house in which Miss Smithson had lived, Rue Neuve St Marc, where I found a lodging. Next day, meeting the old servant, I said:

“Do you know what has become of Miss Smithson?”

“Why, monsieur, she is in Paris; she only left the rooms you are in a few days ago to go to the Rue de Rivoli. She is manageress of an English theatre that is to open in a few days.”

Dumfoundered, I felt that this was indeed the hand of fate. For more than two years I had heard no word of “fair Ophelia” and here I arrive in Paris at the very moment she returns from her tour in Northern Europe.

A mystic might well find arguments in defence of his cult in this strange coincidence. What I said was this:

“I have come to Paris to perform my monodrama. If I go to the theatre before the concert, I shall certainly have another attack of that delirium tremens; all volition will be taken from me; I shall be incapable of the thought and care essential to the success of my work. So first my concert, then I will see her if I die for it and will fight no more against this strange destiny.”

And, despite the Shakespearian names staring at me daily from all the walls in Paris, I kept sternly to my purpose.

The programme was to consist of the Symphonie Fantastique followed by Lelio, the monodrama which is the complement of the former and is the second part of my Episode in an Artist’s Life.

Now trace the extraordinary sequence.

Two days before the concert—which I felt would be my farewell to life and art—I was in Schlesinger’s music-shop, when an Englishman came in and went out almost at once.

“Who is that?” I asked, in idle curiosity.

“Schutter, of Galignani’s Messenger. Ah!” cried Schlesinger, “give me a box for your concert. He knows Miss Smithson, I will get him to persuade her to go.”

I trembled, but dared not refuse; so, running after M. Schutter, he explained matters and got his promise to do his best to induce Miss Smithson to go.

Now while I had been busy over my preparations the unfortunate actress had been also busy—in ruining herself.

She did not realise that Shakespeare was no longer new to the changeable, frivolous Parisian public and innocently counted on a reception such as she had had three years before.

The Romantic School was now on the rising tide and its apostles were not anxious that it should be stemmed by the colossus of dramatic poetry nor that their wholesale filchings from his works should be brought to light.

Hence, sparse audiences, mean receipts and considerable running expenses that swallowed up all the poor manageress’s savings.

Schutter, long afterwards, told me that he found Miss Smithson too dejected to accept his invitation; her sister, however, persuaded her that the change would be good and she at length allowed him to take her down to the carriage. On the way to the Conservatoire her eyes fell on the programme; even then, as she read my name (which they had taken care not to mention) she little knew that she was, herself, the heroine of my work. But, in her box, she could not help seeing that she was the subject of conversation in the hall and when Habeneck came on to conduct with me—gasping with excitement—behind him, she said to herself:

“It is indeed he—poor young man! But he will have forgotten me—at least—I hope so.”

The symphony made a tremendous sensation; that was the day of great enthusiasms and the hall of the Conservatoire (from which I am now shut out) echoed with the applause of that crowd of musicians. The success, the fiery motifs of my work, its cries of love and passion and the mere vibration of such a gigantic orchestra at close quarters, all worked upon Miss Smithson’s sensitive organisation, and in her heart of hearts she cried:

“Ah! If he but loved me now!—--”

During the interval Schutter and Schlesinger made thinly-veiled allusions to my sorrows and when, in the Monodrama, Lelio said:

“Shall I never meet this Juliet, this Ophelia, for whom my heart wearies?”

“Juliet! Ophelia!” she thought, “he must be thinking still of me! He loves me yet!”

From that moment she heard no more; in a dream she sat till the end; in a dream she returned home. That was the 9th December 1832. But while the web of one part of my life was being woven on one side of the hall, on the other side another was in the weaving—compounded of the hatred and wounded vanity of Fétis.

Before going to Italy I used to earn money by correcting musical proofs. Troupenas, having given me some Beethoven scores to do that had previously been revised by Fétis, I found them full of the most impertinent and unmeaning corrections. I was so furious that I went off to Troupenas and said:

“M. Fétis’ corrections are criminal. They are entirely opposed to Beethoven’s intention, and if this edition is published, I warn you that I shall denounce it to every musician I meet.”

Which I accordingly did and there was such an outcry that Troupenas was obliged to suppress the corrections and Fétis thought it politic to tell a lie and announce in the Revue Musicale that there was no truth in the rumour that he had corrected Beethoven’s symphonies. In Lelio I gibbeted him still farther by putting into my hero’s mouth quotations of his own that the audience recognised and applauded, with much laughter. Fétis, sitting in the front row of the gallery, got the blow full in the face, and needless to say, was thereafter more my inveterate enemy than ever.

But I forgot all this next day when I went to call upon Miss Smithson and began that long course of torturing hopes and fears that lasted nearly a year.

Her mother and sister and my parents were all opposed to our marriage, and while various distressing scenes were in progress, the English theatre closed in debt.

To add to her misfortunes, getting out of her carriage, she missed her footing, and falling, broke her leg just above the ankle. The injury was most severe and it was feared that she would be lame for life.

Her accident elicited the greatest sympathy in Paris. Mademoiselle Mars, particularly, came forward, placing her purse, influence, everything she had at poor Ophelia’s disposal. I managed to organise a benefit, in which Chopin and Liszt took part, which brought in enough to pay the most pressing debts.

At last, in the summer of 1833, Henriette being still weak and quite ruined, I married her in the face of the opposition of our two families. All our resources on the wedding day were three hundred francs lent me by Gounet. But what did it matter, since she was mine?

To H. Ferrand.

“Paris, 12th June 1833.—It is really too bad of me to cause you anxiety on my account. But you know how my life fluctuates. One day calm, dreamy, rhythmical; the next bored, nerve-torn, snappy and snarly as a mangey dog, vicious as a thousand devils, sick of life and ready to end it, were it not for the frenzied happiness that draws ever nearer, for the odd destiny that I feel is mine; for my staunch friends; for music, and lastly, for curiosity. My life is a story that interests me greatly.

“You ask how I pass my days? If I am well I read or sleep on the sofa (for I am in comfortable lodgings) or scribble a few well-paid pages for the Europe Littéraire. About six I go to see Henriette who, to my sorrow, is still ailing. I must tell you all about her some day. Your opinion of her is quite wrong; her life, also, is a strange book, of which her points of view, her thoughts, her feelings, are by no means the least interesting part.

“I am still meditating the opera I asked you to write in my letter from Rome eighteen months ago. As, in all this time, you have not sufficiently conquered your laziness to write it, don’t be angry that I have given it to Deschamps and Saint-Félix. I really have been patient!”

“August 1833.—You true friend, not to despair of my future! These cowards cannot realise that, all the time, I am learning, observing, gathering ideas and knowledge. Bending before the storm, I still grow; the wind does but blow off a few leaves; the green fruit upon my branches holds too firmly to be shaken off. Your trust helps and encourages me.

“Have I told you of my parting with Henriette—of our scenes, despair, reproaches, which ended in my taking poison? Her protestations of love and sorrow brought back my desire to live; I took an emetic, was ill three days and am still alive! In her self-abasement she offered to do anything I chose, but now she begins to hesitate again. I will wait no more and have written that, unless she goes with me to the Town Hall on Saturday to be married, I leave for Berlin at once. She shall see that I, who for so long have languished at her feet, can rise, can leave her, can live for those who love and understand me.

“To help me to bear this horrible parting a strange chance has thrown in my way a charming girl of eighteen, who has fled from a brute who bought her—a mere child—and has kept her shut up like a slave for four years. Rather than go back to him, she says she will drown herself and my idea is to take her to Berlin, and by Spontini’s influence, place her in some chorus. I will try and make her love me, and if I succeed, I will fan into life the smouldering embers in my own heart and persuade myself that I love her. My passport is ready; I must make an end of things here. Henriette will be miserable but I have nothing to reproach myself with.

“I would give my life this minute for a month of perfect love with her.

“She must abide the consequences of her unstable character; she will weep and despair at first, then will dry her tears and end by believing me in the wrong.”

“11th October 1833.—I am married! All opposition has been in vain. Henriette has told me of the hundred and one lies they spread abroad. I was epileptic, I was mad—nothing was too bad. But we have listened to our own hearts and all is well.

“This winter we are going to Berlin, but before leaving I must give a horrid concert.

“How awfully I love my poor Ophelia! When once we can get rid of her troublesome sister, life will be hard but quite happy.

“We are at Vincennes, where my wife can spend her days in the Park, but I go to Paris every day. Our marriage has made the devil’s own row there.

“My little fugitive is provided for. Jules Janin has arranged to send her away.

“Write soon. I love to answer, in order to tell you of the heaven I live in—it needs but you! Surely love and friendship like yours and mine is one of the supreme joys of this world!”