XXIV FRIENDS IN NEED

And now for my opera and its deadly failure.

The strange career of Benvenuto Cellini had made such an impression on me that I stupidly concluded that it would be both dramatic and interesting to other people. I therefore asked Léon de Wailly and Auguste Barbier to write me a libretto on it. I must own that even our friends thought it had not the elements essential to success, but it pleased me, and even now I cannot see that it is inferior to many others that are played daily.

In order to please the management of the Débats, Duponchel, manager of the Opera—who looked upon me as a species of lunatic—read the libretto and agreed to take my opera. After which he went about saying that he was going to put it on, not on account of the music, which was ridiculous, but of the book, which was charming.

Never shall I forget the misery of those three months’ rehearsals. The indifference of the actors, riding for a fall, Habeneck’s bad temper, the vague rumours I heard on all sides, all betrayed a general hostility against which I was powerless. It was worse when we came to the orchestra. The executants, seeing Habeneck’s surly manner, were cold and reserved with me. Still they did their duty, which he did not. He never could manage the quick tempo of the saltarello; the dancers, unable to dance to his dragging measure, complained to me. I cried:

“Faster! Faster! Wake up!”

Habeneck, in a rage, hit his desk and broke his bow.

After several exhibitions of temper of this sort I said, calmly:

“My good sir, breaking fifty bows will not prevent your time being twice as slow as it ought to be. This is a saltarello.”

He turned to the orchestra.

“Since it is impossible to please M. Berlioz,” said he, “we will stop for to-day. You may go.”

If only I could have conducted myself! But in France authors are not allowed to direct their own works in theatres.

Years later I conducted my Carnaval Romain, where that very saltarello comes in, without the wind instruments having any rehearsal at all; and Habeneck, certain that I should come to grief, was present. I rushed the allegro at the proper time and everything went perfectly.

The audience cried “encore,” and the second time was even better than the first. I met Habeneck as we went out, and threw four words at him over my shoulder.

“That’s how it goes.” He did not reply.

I never felt so happy conducting as I did that day; the thought of the torments Habeneck had made me suffer increased my pleasure.

But to return to Benvenuto.

Gradually the larger part of the orchestra came over to my side, and several declared that this was the most original score they had ever played. Duponchel heard them and said:

“Was ever such a right-about face? Now they think Berlioz’ music charming, and the idiots are praising it up to the skies.”

Still some malcontents remained, and two were found one night playing J’ai du bon tabac instead of their parts.

It was just the same on the stage. The dancers pinched their partners, who, by their shrieks, upset the chorus. When, in despair, I sent for Duponchel he was never to be found; attending rehearsal was beneath his dignity.

The opera came on at last. The overture made a furore, the rest was unmercifully hissed. However it was played three times.

It is fourteen years (I write in 1850) since I was thus pilloried at the opera, and I have just read over my poor score, carefully and impartially. I cannot help thinking that it shows an originality, a raciness and a brilliancy that I shall, probably, never have again and which deserve a better fate.[15]

Benvenuto took me a long time to write and would never have been ready—tied as I was by my bread-earning journalistic work—had it not been for the help of a friend.

It was heart-breaking, and I had almost given up the opera in despair when Ernest Legouvé came to me, asking:

“Is your opera done?”

“First act not even ready yet. I have no time to compose.”

“But supposing you had time——”

“I would write from dawn till dark.”

“How much would make you independent?”

“Two thousand francs.”

“And suppose someone—If someone—Come, do help me out!”

“With what? What do you mean?”

“Why, suppose a friend lent it to you?”

“What friend could I ask for such a sum?”

“You needn’t ask when I offer it——”

Think of my relief! In real truth, next day Legouvé lent me two thousand francs, and I finished Benvenuto. His noble heart—writer and artist as he was—guessed my trouble and feared to wound me by his offer! I have been fortunate in having many staunch friends.

Paganini was back in Paris when Benvenuto was slaughtered; he felt for me deeply and said:

“If I were a manager I would commission that young man to write me three operas. He should be paid in advance, and I should make a splendid thing by it.”

Mortification and the suppressed rage in which I had lived during those everlasting rehearsals, brought on a bad attack of bronchitis that kept me in bed, unable to work.

But we had to live, and I determined to give two concerts at the Conservatoire. The first barely paid its expenses so, as an attraction, I advertised the Fantastique and Harold together for the 16th December 1838.

Now Paganini, although it was written at his desire, had never heard Harold, and, after the concert, as I waited—trembling, exhausted, bathed in perspiration—he, with his little son, Achille, appeared at the orchestra door, gesticulating violently. Consumption of the throat, of which he afterwards died, prevented his speaking audibly and Achille alone could interpret his wishes.

He signed to the child, who climbed on a chair and put his ear close to his father’s mouth, then turning to me he said:

“Monsieur, my father orders me to tell you that never has he been so struck by music. He wishes to kneel and thank you.”

Confused and embarrassed, I could not speak, but Paganini seized my arm, hoarsely ejaculating, “Yes! Yes!” dragged me into the theatre where several of my players still lingered—and there knelt and kissed my hand.

Coming away in a fever from this strange scene, I met Armand Bertin; stopping to speak to him in that intense cold sent me home to bed worse than ever. Next day, as I lay, ill and alone, little Achille came in.

“My father will be very sorry you are ill,” he said, “if he had not been ill himself he would have come to see you. He told me to give you this letter.”

As I began to open it, the child stopped me:

“He said you must read it alone. There is no answer.” And he hurried out.

I supposed it just a letter of congratulation; but here it is:

“Dear Friend,—Only Berlioz can recall Beethoven, and I, who have heard that divine work—so worthy of your genius—beg you to accept the enclosed 20,000 francs, as a tribute of respect.—Believe me ever, your affectionate friend,

Niccolo Paganini.

“Paris, 18th Dec. 1838.”

I knew enough Italian to make out the letter, but it surprised me so greatly that my head swam, and, without thinking of what I was doing, I opened the little note which was enclosed and addressed to M. de Rothschild. It was in French and ran:

“Monsieur le Baron,—Would you be so good as to hand over the 20,000 francs that I deposited yesterday to M. Berlioz.

Paganini.”

Then I understood.

My wife, coming in, thought that some new trouble had fallen upon us.

“What is it now?” she cried. “Be brave! we have borne so much already.”

“No, no—not that——”

“What then?”

“Paganini—has sent me—20,000 francs!”

“Louis! Louis!” cried Henriette, rushing for her boy, “come here to your mother and thank God.”

And together they knelt by my bed—grateful mother and wondering child. Oh Paganini! why could you not be there to see?

Naturally, my first thought was to thank him. My letter seemed so poor, so inadequate, that I am ashamed to give it here. There are feelings beyond words.

His munificent kindness was soon noised abroad and my room besieged by friends anxious to know the facts. All rejoiced and some were jealous—not of me, but of Paganini, who was rich enough to do such deeds. Then began the comments, fury and lies of my opponents, followed by the congratulatory letter of Janin and his eloquent article in the Débats.

For a week I lay in bed, burning with impatience to see and thank my benefactor. Then I hurried to his house and found him in the billiard-room. We embraced in silence then, as I poured forth broken thanks, he spoke and—thanks to the silence of the room—I was able to make out his words.

“Not a word! It is so little and has given me the greatest pleasure of my life. You cannot tell how much your music moves me. Ah!” he cried, with a blow of his fist on the table, “now your enemies will be silenced for they know I understand and am not easily satisfied.”

But great as was his name it was not great enough to silence the dogs of Paris; in a few weeks they were again baying at my heels.

My earnest wish, now that all debts were paid and a handsome sum remained in hand, was to write a masterpiece, grand, impassioned, original, worthy of dedication to the master to whom I owed so much.

But Paganini, growing worse, had left for Nice, whence alas! he returned no more. I consulted him as to a suitable theme, but he replied:

“I cannot advise you. You best know what suits you best.”

After much wavering I fixed on a choral symphony on Shakespeare’s Romeo and Juliet, and wrote the prose words for the choral portion, which Emile Deschamps, with his usual kindness and extraordinary versatility, put into poetry for me.

Ah! the joy of no more newspaper articles!—or at least hardly any. Paganini had given me money to make music, and I made it. For seven months, with only a few days’ intermission, did I work at my symphony.

And, during those months, what a burning, exhilarating life I led! Ah! the joy of floating on the halcyon sea of poetry; wafted onward by the sweet soft breeze of imagination; warmed by the rays of that golden sun of love unveiled by Shakespeare! I felt within me the god-like strength to win my way to that blessed hidden isle, where the temple of pure art raises its soaring columns to the sky.

To others must I leave it to say whether I ever truly looked upon its glories.

Such as it was, my symphony was performed three times running, and each time appeared to be a great success. To my sorrow, Paganini never heard it nor read it. I hoped to see him again in Paris; then to send him the printed score; but he died at Nice leaving to me the poignant sorrow that he would never judge whether the work, undertaken to please him and to justify his faith in its author, was worthy of his great trust.

He, too, seemed sorry not to have known it, and in his letter of the 7th January 1840, he wrote:

“Now it is well done; jealousy can but be silent.”

Dear, noble friend! He never saw the ribald nonsense written about my work; how one called my Queen Mab music a badly-oiled squirt, how another—speaking of the Love-Scene, which musicians place in the forefront of my work—said I did not understand Shakespeare!

Empty-headed toad, bursting with stupid self-importance! If you could prove that....

Never was I more deeply hurt by criticism, and yet none of these high priests of art deigned to point out the faults, which I thankfully corrected, when told of them.

For instance, Ernst’s secretary, M. Frankoski, wrote from Vienna saying that the end of Queen Mab was too abrupt; I therefore wrote the present coda and destroyed the original one.

The criticisms of M. d’Ortigue I also appreciated. The rest of the alterations were my own.

But the symphony is enormously difficult for the executants, both in form and style, and needs most careful, conscientious practice and perfect conducting—which means that none but first-rate artists in each department could possibly do it.

For this reason it will never be given in London. They do not give enough time to rehearsals. The musicians there have no time for music.[16]