XXII NEWSPAPER BONDAGE

At the time of our marriage our sole income was my scholarship, which still had a year and a half to run; but the Minister of the Interior absolved me from the regulation German tour. I had a fair number of friends and adherents in Paris and firm faith in the future.

To pay my wife’s debts, I had to start benefit-mongering. My friends rallied round me—amongst them Alexandre Dumas, who was all his life my most devoted helper—and after untold annoyances we arranged a theatrical performance, followed by a concert at the Théâtre Italien.

The programme was Dumas’ Antony, played by Firmin and Madame Dorval, followed by the fourth act of Hamlet, by my wife and some English amateurs; then a concert consisting of my Symphonie Fantastique, Francs-Juges, Sardanapalus, a chorus of Weber and his Concert-Stück, played by Liszt.

If the concert had ever come off entirely it would have lasted till one in the morning. But it did not, and for the sake of young musicians I must tell what happened.

Not being versed in the manners and customs of theatrical musicians, I arranged with the manager to take his theatre and orchestra, adding to the latter some players from the Opera, an impossibly dangerous combination, since the theatre employés were bound by contract to take part gratuitously in concerts in their own house, and, therefore, naturally look upon them as a burden. By engaging paid artists, I simply added to their grievance, and they determined to be revenged.

Then, my wife and I being equally ignorant of the petty intrigues of the theatrical world we took no precautions to insure her success. We never even sent a ticket to the claque, and Madame Dorval, believing Henriette’s triumph secured, of course took measures to arrange for her own. Besides, she played splendidly, so it was no wonder she was applauded and recalled.

The fourth act of Hamlet, separated from its context, was incomprehensible to French people and fell absolutely flat. They even noticed (although her talent and grace were as great as ever) how difficult my poor wife found it to raise herself from her kneeling position by her father’s bier, by resting one hand on the stage. Gone was her magnetic power to thrill her audience, and, at the fall of the curtain, those who had idolised her did not even recall her once! It was heart-breaking. My poor Ophelia, the twilight had indeed crept on!

As to the concert, the Francs-Juges was poorly played but well received; the Concert-Stück, played by Liszt with the passionate impetuosity he always put into it, created a furore, and I, carried away by enthusiasm, was idiotic enough to embrace him on the stage, a piece of stupidity fortunately condoned by the audience.

From then things went badly, and by the time we arrived at the symphony not only were my pulses beating like sledge-hammers, but it was very late indeed. I knew nothing of the rule of the Théâtre Italien, that its musicians need not play after midnight, and when, after Weber’s Chorus, I turned to review my orchestra before raising my baton, I found that it consisted of five violins, two violas, four ’cellos, and a trombone, all the others having slipped quietly away.

In my consternation I could not think what to do. The audience did not seem inclined to leave and loudly called for the symphony, one voice in the gallery shouting, “Give us the Marche au Supplice!”

“How can I,” cried I, “perform such a thing with five violins? Is it my fault that the orchestra has disappeared?”

I was crimson with rage and shame.

With disappointed murmurs the people melted away. Of course my enemies announced that my music “drove musicians out of the place.”

That miserable evening brought in seven thousand francs, which went into the gulf of my wife’s debts without, alas! filling it up. That was only done after years of struggle and privation.

I longed to give Henriette a splendid revenge, but there were no English actors in Paris to help her with a complete play, and we both saw that mutilated Shakespeare was worse than useless. I was, therefore, obliged to content myself with taking vengeance for the malicious reports about my music, and, with Henriette’s full approval, I arranged for a concert of my own works at the Conservatoire.

It was a terrible risk for a penniless man, but here, as ever, my wife shewed herself the courageous opponent of half-measures and steadfastly determined to face the chance of positive penury.

The concert, for which I engaged the very best artists, amongst whom were many of my friends, was a triumphant success. I was vindicated.

My musicians (none of whom came from the Italien) beamed with joy, and, to crown all, when the audience had dispersed I found waiting for me a man with long black hair, piercing eyes, and wasted form—genius-haunted, a colossus among giants—whom I had never seen before, yet who stirred within me a strange emotion.

Catching my hand, he poured forth a flood of burning praise and appreciation that fired my heart and head.

It was Paganini.

This was on the 22nd December 1833.

Thus began my friendship with that great artist to whom I owe so much and whose generosity towards me has given rise to such absurd and wicked reports. Some weeks later he said:

“I have a beautiful Strad. viola which I long to play in public. Will you write me a solo for it? I could not trust anyone but you.”

“To do that one ought to play the viola,” I objected. “You alone could do it satisfactorily.”

But he insisted:

“I am too ill to compose; it would be useless to try. You will do it properly.”

So to please him I tried to write a viola solo with orchestral accompaniment, feeling sure that his power would enable him to dominate the orchestra. It seemed to me an entirely new idea, and I burned to carry it through. However, he called soon after and asked to see a sketch of his part.

“This won’t do,” he said, looking at the pauses, “there is too much silence. I must be playing all the time.”

“Did I not tell you so?” I answered. “What you want is a viola concerto, and you are the only one who can write it.”

He seemed disappointed and dropped the subject; a few days later, suffering from the throat trouble of which he afterwards died, he left for Nice and did not come back for three years.

Still ruminating over my idea, I wove round the viola solo a series of scenes, drawn from my memories of wanderings in the Abruzzi, which I called Childe Harold, as there seemed to me about the whole symphony a poetic melancholy worthy of Byron’s hero. It was first performed at my concert, 23rd November 1834, but Girard, the conductor, made a terrible hash of the Pilgrim’s March. However, being doubtful of my own powers, I still allowed him to direct my concerts until, after the fourth performance of Harold, seeing that he would not take it at the proper tempo, I assumed command myself, and never but once after that broke my rule of conducting my own compositions.

We shall see how much cause I had to regret that one exception.

To Humbert Ferrand.

“Montmartre, 30th August 1834.—You are not forgotten—not the least little bit, but you cannot know what a slave I am to hard necessity. Had it not been for those confounded newspaper articles I should have written to you a dozen times.

“I will not write the usual empty phrases on your loss yet, if anything could soften the blow, it would be that your father’s death was as peaceful as one could wish. You speak of my father. He wrote kindly and quickly in answer to my letter announcing the birth of my boy. Henriette thanks you for your messages; she, too, understands the depth of our friendship. I could write all night but, as I have to tug at my galley-oar all day, I must go to sleep.”

“30th November 1834.—I quite expected a letter from you to-day, and although I am dropping with fatigue, I must snatch half an hour to answer it. The Symphonie Fantastique is out, and, as our poor Liszt has dropped a terrible lot of money over it, we arranged with Schlesinger that not one copy was to be given away. They are twenty francs. Shall I buy one for you?

“Would to heaven I could send it you without all this preface, but you know we are still very straitened. My wife and I are as happy as it is possible to be, in spite of our worldly troubles, and little Louis is the dearest and sweetest of children.”

“10th January 1835.—If I had had time I should already have begun another work I am thinking of, but I am obliged to scribble these wretched, ill-paid articles. Ah! if only art counted for something with the Government perhaps I should not be reduced to this. Never mind, I must find time somehow.”

“April 1835.—I wrote, about a month ago, an introduction to you for a young violinist named Allard, who is on his way to Geneva.

“So you have been in Milan! Not a town I like, but it is the threshold of Italy. I cannot tell you how much, when the weather is fine, I long for my ancient Campagna and the wild hills that I loved.

“You ask for news of us.

“Louis can nearly walk alone and Henriette is more devoted to him than ever. I work like a nigger for the four papers whence I get my daily bread. They are the Rénovateur, which pays badly; the Monde Dramatique and Gazette Musicale which pay only fairly; the Débats, which pays well.

“Added to this is the nightmare of my musical life; I cannot find time to compose.

“I have begun a gigantic piece of work for seven hundred musicians, to the memory of the great men of France.

“It would soon be done if I had but one quiet month, but I dare not give up a single day to it, lest we should want for absolute necessaries.

“Which concert do you refer to? I have given seven this season and shall begin again in November.

“At present we sit dumb under the triumph of Musard,[12] who, puffed up by the success of his dancing-den concerts, looks upon himself as a superior Mozart. Mozart never composed anything like the ‘Pistol-shot Quadrille,’ consequently Mozart died of want.

“Musard is earning twenty thousand francs a year, and Ballanche, the immortal author of Orpheus and Antigone was nearly thrown into prison, because he owed two hundred francs.

“Think of it, Ferrand; does not madness lie that way? If I were a bachelor, so that my rash doings would recoil on myself alone, I know what I would do.

“Never mind that now, though. Love me always and, to please me, read de Vigny’s Chatterton.”

“December 1835.—Do not think me a sinner for leaving you so long in silence. You can have no idea of my work—but I need not emphasise that, for you know how much pleasure I have in writing to you and that I should not lightly forego it.

“I have seen Coste, who is publishing serially Great Men of Italy, and he is going to approach you about contributing some articles. Among those now out is a life of Benvenuto Cellini. Read it, if you are not already familiar with the autobiography of that bandit of genius.

“Harold is more successful even than last year, and I think it quite outdoes the Fantastique.

“They have accepted my Cellini for the Opera; Alfred de Vigny[13] and Auguste Barbier have written me a poem full of dainty vivacity and colour. I have not begun to work at the music yet, because I am in the same predicament as my hero, Cellini—short of money. Good reports from Germany, thanks to Liszt’s piano arrangement of my Symphony.

“April 1826.—I still work frightfully hard at journalism. You know I write concert critiques for the Débats, which are signed ‘H.’

“They seem to be making a stir. Parisian artists call them epoch-making.

“In spite of M. Bertin (the editor’s) wish, I refused to review either I Puritani or that wretched Juive. I should have had to find too much fault, and people would have put it down to jealousy.

“Then there is the Rénovateur, wherein I can hardly control my wrath over all these ‘pretty little trifles’; and Picturesque Italy has dragged an article out of me.

“Next, the Gazette Musicale plagues me for a résumé of the week’s inanities every Sunday.

“Added to that I have tried every concert room in Paris, with the idea of giving a concert, and find none suitable except the Conservatoire, which is not available until after the last of the regular concerts on the 3rd May.

“We often talk of you to Barbier; he is a kindred soul whom you would love. No one understands better than he the grandeur and nobility of an artist’s calling.

“Germany still talks of me; Vienna asks for a copy of the score of the Fantastique, but I tell them I cannot possibly let them have it, as I propose to give it on tour myself.

“All the poets in Paris, from Scribe to Victor Hugo, offer me subjects, but those idiotic directors stand in the way. Some day I will set my foot upon their necks.

“Now I must be off to the office of the Débats with my article on Beethoven’s C Minor.

“Meyerbeer is coming soon to superintend his Huguenots, which I am most anxious to hear. He is the only recognised musician who has shown a keen interest in me.

“Onslow has been paying me his usual bombastic compliments on the Pilgrim’s March. I am glad to think there was not a word of truth in them, I prefer open hatred to honeyed venom.”