XXIX THE RAKOCZY MARCH

Of my journey from Paris to Vienna I only have two distinct impressions—one of a violent pain in my side that I thought would be the death of me and the other of a species of god I saw at Augsbourg. This worthy man had founded a sort of neo-christianity which was rather popular: he looked a decent sort of fellow.

At Ratisbon the steamer had gone, so I was obliged to wait two days and then go on in a diligence, which made me feel as if I had gone back into the Dark Ages. At Linz, however, I set foot on a fine steam-boat, and found myself once more in A.D. 1845.

But I had time for reflection and could not help wondering why on earth we cannot all spell the names of places alike. There was I, hunting through a German map. Linz was graciously pleased to be the same in both languages, but where was Ratisbon? Who could possibly find it masquerading as Regensburg?

What should we say to the Germans if they persisted in calling Lyons, Mittenberg, and Paris, Triffenstein?

On landing at Vienna I at once got an idea of the passion for music of the Austrians.

The custom-house officer examining my trunks caught sight of the name on them and asked:

“Where is he? Where is he?”

“I am he, monsieur.”

“Mein Gott, M. Berlioz, where in the world have you been? We have been waiting for you a week and couldn’t think what had become of you.”

I thanked my worthy friend as well as my limited vocabulary would allow, and could not help thinking that my non-appearance would never give rise to similar anxiety at the Paris Douane.

The first concert I went to was one in the Riding School, given by nearly a thousand performers—most of them amateurs—for the benefit of the Conservatoire, which has no, or very little, Government support. The verve and precision with which that musical crowd rendered Mozart’s delicate Flauto Magico overture quite astonished me, I had not believed it possible.

I was delighted to make the acquaintance of Nicolaï, conductor of the Kärnthnerthor Theatre; he has the three gifts necessary—to my mind—for a perfect director. He is an experienced, enthusiastic composer, has perfect intuition for rhythms and clear-cut and precise mechanism. Finally, he is a clever organiser, sparing neither time nor trouble; hence the wonderful unity and perfection of the Kärnthnerthor orchestra.

He arranged sacred concerts in the Salle des Redoutes similar to ours in Paris. There I heard a scena from Oberon, a fine symphony of Nicolaï’s own and the incomparable B flat of Beethoven.

It is in this fine hall that, thirty years since, Beethoven gave his masterpieces—now worshipped by Europe, but then despised by the Viennese, who crowded to hear Salieri’s operas! How my knees trembled as I stood at the desk where once he had stood! Nothing is changed; the desk I used is the very one that he had used, by that staircase he had come up to receive the applause of his few admirers, looked upon by the rest of the audience as fanatics in search of eccentricity.

For recognition Beethoven had to wait, but how he suffered!

To my great delight Pischek, the splendid baritone I had met and admired in Frankfort, suggested that he should make his Viennese début at my concert.

He had improved immensely; somehow his voice always gave rise in me to a sort of exaltation or intoxication which, now, was intensified by its splendid compass, passion and exquisite sweetness.

No wonder that his success in a great ballad by Uhland (which bore no resemblance to the inanities we call ballads in Paris) was instantaneous and, as an encore, he gave a song that drove the audience almost frantic. If only he would learn French what a furore he would make in Paris!

My reception by all in Vienna—even by my fellow-ploughmen, the critics—was most cordial; they treated me as a man and a brother, for which I am heartily grateful.

After my third concert at a grand supper my friends presented me with a silver-gilt baton, and the Emperor sent me eleven hundred francs with the rather odd compliment, “Tell Berlioz I was really amused.”

The rest of my doings, are they not written in the newspapers of the day?

The first thing I did on leaving Vienna for Pesth was to get into trouble with the Danube, which, instead of remaining decently within its banks, chose to overflow and inundate that muddy Slough of Despond by courtesy called the Emperor’s highway. Only with an extra team of horses had we been able to make way even so far, but at midnight I was aroused from my resigned drowsiness by the stoppage of the carriage and the boiling of waters all round.

The driver had gone straight into the river, and dared not stir a step. The water rose steadily.

There was a Hungarian captain in the coupé who had spoken to me once or twice through the little window between us; it was my turn to speak now:

“Captain!”

“Sir?”

“Don’t you think we are going to be drowned?”

“Yes, I do. Have a cigar.”

His calm insolent coolness made me long to smash his head in; in a fury I took his cigar and puffed violently. Still the water rose and the desperate driver turned, and at the risk of spilling us all in the river, climbed up the bank and took us straight-way—into a lake. This time I thought must be the end of all and I called out to the soldier:

“Captain, have you another cigar?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Let me have it quick, for it’s all up with us now!”

But it was not, for an honest country man passing by (where the devil could he have been going in such weather at such a time of night?) extricated us and gave our unhappy Phæton directions whereby we made our way to Pesth. At least it was a big town of which I asked my captain the name.

“Buda,” said he.

“What? In my map the town opposite Pesth is called Ofen. Look.”

“Oh yes, that’s Buda. Ofen is the German name for it.”

“H’m, I see. German maps are as cleverly arranged as French ones; but I think they might give us both names anyway.”

On reaching Pesth I had a little pleasure party all to myself, in accordance with a promise made to myself while soaking in the Danube mud. I took a bath, drank two glasses of Tokay and slept twenty hours—not, however, without visions of boiling waters and lakes of mud. After which I set out on the war-path of concert-promoting, greatly helped by the kindness of Count Raday, superintendent of the National Theatre.

Now the Hungarians are nothing if not patriotic. In every shop window things are ticketed hony (national) and, by the advice of an amateur in Vienna, who had brought me a volume of Hungarian national airs, I chose the Rakoczy March and arranged it as it now stands as finale to the first part of my Faust.

No sooner did the rumour spread that I had written hony music than Pesth began to ferment.

How had I treated it? They feared profanation of that idolised melody, which for so many years had made their hearts beat with lust of glory and battle and liberty; all kinds of stories were rife, and at last there came to me M. Horwath, editor of a Hungarian paper—who, unable to curb his curiosity, had gone to inspect my march at the copyist’s.

“I have seen your Rakoczy score,” he said, uneasily.

“Well?”

“Well; I feel horribly nervous about it.”

“Bah! why?”

“Your motif is introduced piano, and we are used to hearing it started fortissimo.”

“Yes, by the gipsies. Is that all? Don’t be alarmed. You shall have such a forte as you never heard in your life. You can’t have read the score carefully; remember the end is everything.”

All the same, when the day came my throat tightened, as it did in times of great excitement, when this devil of a thing came on. First the trumpets gave out the rhythm, then the flutes and clarinets, with a pizzicato accompaniment of strings—softly outlining the air—the audience remaining calm and judicial. Then, as there came a long crescendo, broken by the dull beats of the big drum (as of distant cannon) a strange restless movement was perceptible among them—and, as the orchestra let itself go in a cataclysm of sweeping fury and thunder, they could contain themselves no longer.

Their overcharged souls burst with a tremendous explosion of feeling that raised my hair with terror.

I lost all hope of making the end audible,[22] and in the encore it was no better; hardly could they contain themselves long enough to hear a portion of the coda.

Horwath, in his box, was like one possessed, and I could not resist a smiling glance at him to ask—

“Are you still afraid or are you content with your forte?”

It was lucky that this was the end of the programme, for certainly these excitable people would have listened to nothing more.

As I mopped my face in the little room set apart for me, a poorly dressed man slipped quietly in. He threw himself upon me, his eyes full of tears, and stammered out:

“Ah, monsieur—the Hungarian—poor man—not speak French—Forgive, excited—understood your cannon—Yes, big battle—Dogs of Germans!” Striking his chest vehemently—“In heart of me you stay—ah, French—Republican—know to make music of Revolution!”

I cannot describe his frenzy; it was almost sublime.

After that, of course, the Rakoczy ended every concert, and on leaving I had to present the town with my MS.

Later on I sent them a revised version, as some young Hungarians did me the honour to present me with a silver crown of most exquisite workmanship.

When I got back to Vienna, the amateur who had given me the idea of writing the march came to me in comical terror.

“For mercy’s sake,” he begged, “never tell that I gave you the idea. The excitement of it has reached Vienna, and I should get into dreadful trouble if it were known.”

Of course I promised silence, but, as this terrible affair is long since done with, I may now add that he was called—— No, I only wished to frighten him. I won’t tell!

I had not intended to include Prague in my round, but someone sent me the Prague Musical Gazette with three appreciative articles on my King Lear by Dr Ambros. I wrote to thank him and mentioned my doubts of my reception by his fellow-citizens who, I had been told, would hear no one but Mozart. His kind reply swept away my misgivings and made me as eager to go as I had hitherto been the reverse. Of Prague my recollections are golden. I gave six concerts, and at the last, had the great joy of having Liszt to hear my Romeo and Juliet.

At the close of the performance as I begged him to be my interpreter in thanking the artists for their devotion and patience in spending three weeks over my works, two or three of them came up to us and spoke to him.

“My office is changed,” he said, turning to me; “these gentlemen request me to convey to you their thanks for the pleasure you have given them and their joy in your pleasure.”

This was indeed a red-letter day for me! There are not many such in my life.

As the music lovers of Vienna had given me a banquet and a silver-gilt baton, those of Prague gave me a supper and a silver cup.

But this same cup poured out such floods of champagne that Liszt, who had made a charming and touching speech in my honour, was shipwrecked therein. At two o’clock in the morning Belloni, his secretary, and I were hard at work in the streets of Prague trying to persuade him to wait till daylight to fight a Bohemian who had drunk more than he had. We were rather anxious about him, as he had to give a concert at noon next day, and at half-past eleven was still asleep. At length he was awakened, jumped into a carriage, walked on to the platform, and played as I verily believe he had never played before. There certainly is a Providence over—pianists.

I cannot express my tender regrets for those good Bohemians.