XXX PARIS—RUSSIA—LONDON

While trailing round Germany in my old post-chaise I composed my Damnation de Faust. Each movement is punctuated by memories of the place where it was written. For instance, the Peasant’s Dance was written by the light of a shop gas-jet one night when I had lost myself in Pesth, and I got up in the middle of the night in Prague to write the song of the angelic choir.

Thinking that my foreign tour might have enhanced my home reputation, on my return to Paris I ventured to put it in rehearsal, going to enormous expense for copying and for the hire of the Opera Comique. Fatal reasoning! The indifference of the Parisians to art had increased by leaps and bounds, the weather in November 1846 was vile, and they preferred their warm homes to the unfashionable Opera Comique.

It was twice performed to half empty houses and elicited no more attention than if I had been the least of Conservatoire students. Nothing in all my career has wounded me as this did. The lesson was cruel but useful; I vowed that never again would I trust to the tender mercies of Paris.

I did not keep my vow, for later on I could not resist letting it hear my Childhood of Christ, which proved a great success.

[Berlioz does not mention the domestic troubles that added greatly to his dejection. His wife was paralysed and his son Louis, brought up in a divided household, naturally gave him anxiety, as the following letter shows]:

To Louis Berlioz.

“October 1846.—Your mother is a little better, but she is still in bed and unable to speak. As the least agitation would be fatal to her, do not write to her as you have done to me.

“You talk of being a sailor. Do you wish to leave me? for, once at sea, God knows when I shall see you again. Were I but free I would go with you, and we would seek our fortunes in India or some far-off land, but to travel one must have money, and only in France can I get my living—such as it is.

“I am speaking to you as if you were grown up. You must think over what I say and you will understand. But remember that, whatever happens, I am and always shall be your best and most devoted friend. It would indeed be sad if, when you came to be twenty years of age, you found yourself useless both to society and yourself. Good-bye, dear child. My heartfelt love.”

Faust was my ruin. After two days of unutterable misery I decided to retrieve my fortunes by a tour in Russia, if I could but collect enough money first to pay my debts. Then did my kind friends rally round me and apply healing balm to my wounded spirit.

M. Berlin advanced me a thousand francs from the Débats funds; one friend lent me five hundred, others six or seven; M. Friedland, a young German I had met in Prague, twelve hundred, and Hetzel a thousand.

So, helped on all sides, I was able, with a clear conscience, to leave for Russia on the 14th February 1847, feeling that few men have been so blessed as I in the devoted generosity and kind-heartedness of my single-minded friends.

The time for concert-giving in Russia is Lent—March—as then the theatres are all closed. The cold was intense, and during my whole fortnight’s journey I never lost sight of the snow, and made only one short stop in Berlin to beg a letter of introduction to the Empress of Russia from her brother, the King of Prussia, which, with his invariable kindness, he sent me at once.

Before leaving Paris, Balzac said to me:

“Be sure at Tilsit to hunt up the post-master, M. Nernst. He is a clever, well-read man and may be useful to you.”

So at Tilsit I walked into his office and there found a big man perched on a high stool.

“M. Nernst?” I said, taking off my hat.

“Yes, monsieur; to whom have I the honour of speaking?”

“To Hector Berlioz.”

“No! not really?” He bounced off his stool and landed before me, cap in hand.

How well I remember my poor father’s happy pride in this story! “Not really?” he would repeat, and his laughter would ring out again and again.

We had a cordial meeting-ground in our mutual friendship with Balzac, and after some hours’ rest I set out, warmed and comforted, in a horrible iron sledge wherein I endured a martyrdom till, four days later, I reached St Petersburg.

Hardly had I shaken off the traces of my journey when M. Lenz, an old acquaintance, came to take me to Count Michael Wielhorski, from whom I received a most flattering welcome. He and his brother, by their love of art, their great connections and immense fortune, have made their palace a sort of little Ministry of Fine Arts.

By them I was introduced to Romberg, General Guédéonoff, superintendent of the Imperial theatres, and General Lwoff, aide-de-camp to the Emperor, a composer of rare talent.

Not to go into too many details, my visits both to St Petersburg and Moscow were the greatest success financially as well as artistically. My first concert (at which I was summoned, hot and dishevelled with my exertions, to the box of the Emperor, who was most gracious) made eighteen thousand francs; the expenses were six thousand, the balance was mine.

I could not resist murmuring, as I turned to the south-west, “Ah, dear Parisians!”

I must just recall one of my red-letter days—the performance of Romeo and Juliet in St Petersburg.

No wretched bargaining, no limitation of rehearsals here!

I asked General Guédéonoff:

“How many rehearsals can your Excellency allow me?”

“How many? Why! as many as you want. They will rehearse until you are satisfied.”

And they did; consequently it was royally, imperially, organised and performed.

The vast theatre was full; diamonds, uniforms, helmets shone and glittered everywhere. I, too, was in good form, and conducted without a single mistake—a thing that, in those days, did not happen often.

I was recalled more times than I could count, but I must own that I paid small heed to the public, the divine Shakespearean poem that I myself had made affected me so deeply that, the moment I was free, I fled to a quiet room in the theatre, where my dear, good Ernst found me in floods of tears.

“Ah! nerves!” said he, “I know too well what it is.”

And, holding my head, he let me sob like a hysterical girl for a quarter of an hour.

Despite its warm reception, I doubt that my symphony was rather over the heads of the audience, therefore, when it was to be repeated, on the advice of the cashier of the theatre, I added two scenes from Faust.

I heard of a funny incident at this second performance. One lady present sat and was bored with most exemplary patience; she would not have it thought that she could not understand this feast of music. Proud of having stayed to the end, she said, as she left her box:

“Yes, it is a tremendous thing, but quite intelligible. In that grand introduction I could absolutely see Romeo driving up in his gig!!!”

I spoke of Ernst just now—great artist and noble friend. He has been compared to Chopin—a comparison both true and false.

Chopin could never bear the restraints of time, and, I think, carried his independence too far; he simply could not play in time. Ernst, while employing rubato, kept it within artistic limits, retaining always a dignified sway over his own caprices.

In Chopin’s compositions all the interest centres in the piano, his orchestral concerto accompaniments are cold and practically useless. Ernst is distinguished by quite the opposite—his concerted music is not only brilliant for the solo instrument, but the symphonic interest is thoroughly grateful and sustained.

Even Beethoven allowed the orchestra to overpower the soloist, and, to my mind, the perfect system is that adopted by Ernst, Vieuxtemps and Liszt.

Chopin was the delicate refined virtuoso of small gatherings, of groups of intimate friends. Ernst was master of crowds; he loved them, and, like Liszt, was at his very best with two thousand hearers to conquer.

The Great Feast being over, there was nothing to keep me in St Petersburg, which, however, I left with great regret.

Passing through Riga, I thought I would give a concert. The receipts hardly covered the expenses (I think I was twelve francs to the good), but it procured me the friendship of some pleasant artists and amateurs, amongst them the post-master, who turned out to be a constant reader of my newspaper articles. He looked me dubiously up and down, and said:

“You don’t look a firebrand, but from your articles I should have expected quite a different sort of man, for, devil take me! you write with a dagger, not a pen!”

The King of Prussia wishing to hear my Faust, I arranged to stay ten days in Berlin. The Opera House was placed at my disposal, and I was promised half the gross receipts. The orchestra and choruses were capital, but I cannot say as much for the soloists, who were feeble in the extreme. The King of Thule ballad was hissed, but whether this was due to me or to the singer I cannot say—probably both—for the stalls were filled with a malicious crowd who objected to a Frenchman having the audacity to set to music a German classic.

However, by the time we got to the Danse des Sylphes I was in a bad temper and refused the encore they gave it.

The royalties were apparently satisfied; the Princess of Prussia said many nice things and the King sent me the Red Eagle by Meyerbeer and invited me to dinner at Sans Souci. I met with a cordial reception, gave him news of his sister in Russia and finally ventured to say after dinner was over: “Ah, sire, you are the true king of artists. Without you could Spontini and Meyerbeer have gained a hearing? Was it not at your suggestion that Mendelssohn composed his Antigone music? Did not you commission him to write the Midsummer Night’s Dream? Does not your known love of art incite us all to do our best?”

“Well, perhaps so,” he answered, “but there’s no need to say so much about it.”

But it is true. Now there are two other sovereigns who share his interest—the Grand Duke of Saxe-Weimar and the blind young King of Hanover.

On returning to France I took my boy to see his relations at La Côte Saint-André. Poor Louis! how happy he was; petted by relations and old servants and wandering about the fields, his little hand thrust in mine.

In a letter I had yesterday he says that that fortnight was the happiest of his life. And now he is at the blockade of the Baltic, on the eve of a naval battle—that hell upon the sea! The mere thought of it maddens me; yet he chose it himself—this noble profession. But we did not expect war then.

Dear noble boy! at this minute they may be bombarding Bomarsund—it will not bear thinking of, I must turn to other things—I can write no more.

From Paris and its usual weary round of jealousy and intrigue, it was a comfort to turn to London, whence I received the offer of an engagement to conduct the grand English Opera for Jullien. In his usual rôle of madman he got together orchestra, chorus, principals and theatre, merely forgetting a repertoire. To cover expenses he would have had to take ten thousand francs a night and this he expected to net out of an English version of Lucia di Lammermoor!

To Tajan Rogé of St Petersburg.

“London, November 1847.—Dear Rogé,—Your letter should have been answered sooner had it not been for the thousand and one worries that overwhelmed me the minute I set foot in Paris.

“You can have no idea of my existence in that infernal city that thinks itself the home of Art.

“Thank heaven I have escaped to England and am, financially, more independent than I dared to hope.

“Jullien, the manager here, is a most intrepid spirit and seems to understand English people; he has made his fortune and is going to make mine, he says. I let him have his own way since he does nothing unworthy of art and good taste—but I have my doubts.

“I have come alone to London; you may guess my reasons. I badly needed a little freedom which, so far, I have never been able to get. Not one coup d’état but a whole series was necessary before I succeeded in shaking off my bonds. Yet now, although I am so busy with rehearsals, my loneliness seems very odd.

“Since I am in a confidential mood, will you believe that I had a queer little love affair in St Petersburg with a girl—now don’t laugh like a full orchestra in C major! It was poetic, heart-rending, and perfectly innocent.

“Oh, our walks! oh, the tears I shed when, like Faust’s Marguerite, she said: ‘What can you see in me—a poor girl so far beneath you?’ I thought I should die of despair when I left St Petersburg, and was really ill when I found no letter from her in Berlin. She did promise to write, probably by now she is married.

“I can picture it all again—the Neva banks, the setting sun. In a maze of passion I pressed her hand to my heart, and sang her the Love Song from Romeo.

“Ah me! not two lines since I left her.

“Good-bye; you at least will write to me.”

To Auguste Morel.

“76 Harley Street, London, 31st November 1847.—Jullien asks me confidentially to get your report on the success of Verdi’s new opera.[23] We begin next week with the Bride of Lammermoor, which can hardly help going well with Madame Gras and Reeves. He has a beautiful voice, and sings as well as this awful English language will allow.

“I had a warm reception at one of Jullien’s concerts, but shall not begin my own until January.

“Your friend, M. Grimblot, has given me the entrée to his club, but heaven only knows what amusement is to be found in an English club. Macready gave a magnificent dinner in my honour last week; he is charming and most unassuming at home, though they say he is terrible at rehearsal. I have seen him in a new tragedy, Philip van Artevelde; he is grand, and has mounted the piece splendidly.

“No one here understands the management and grouping of a crowd as he does. It is masterly.”

“8th December.—The opening of our season was a success. Madame Gras and Reeves were recalled frantically four or five times, and they both deserved it.

“Reeves is a priceless discovery for Jullien; his voice is exquisite in quality, he is a good musician, has an expressive face, and plays with judgment.”

“14th January.—Jullien has landed us all in a dreadful bog, but don’t mention it in Paris, as we must not spoil his credit. It is not the Drury Lane venture that has ruined him; that was done before; now he has gone off to the provinces and is making a lot of money with his promenade concerts, while we take a fair amount each night at the theatre, none of which goes into our pockets, for we are not paid at all. Only the orchestra, chorus, and work-people are paid every week in order to keep the thing going somehow.

“If Jullien does not pay me on his return, I shall arrange with Lumley to give some concerts in Her Majesty’s Theatre, for there is a good opening here since poor Mendelssohn’s death.”

“12th February 1848.—My music has taken with the English as fire to gunpowder. The Rakoczy and Danse des Sylphes were encored. Everyone of importance, musically, was at Drury Lane for my concert, and most of the artists came to congratulate me. They had expected something diabolic, involved, incomprehensible. Now we shall see how they agree with our Paris critics. Davison himself wrote the Times critique; they cut half of it out from want of space; still the remainder has had its effect. Old Hogarth of the Daily News was truly comical: ‘My blood is on fire,’ said he; ‘never have I been excited like this by music.’”

Jullien, coming finally to the end of his resources, was obliged to call a council of war. It consisted of Sir Henry Bishop, Sir George Smart, Planché, Gye, Marezeck, and myself.

He talked wildly of the different operas he proposed to mount, and finally came to Iphigenia in Tauris, which, like many others, is promised yearly by the London managers. Impatient at my silence he turned upon me:

“Confound it all! surely you know that?”

“Certainly I know it. What do you want me to tell you?”

“How many acts there are, how many characters, what voices and, above all, the style of setting and costume.”

“Take a pen and paper and I will tell you. Four acts, three men: Orestes, baritone; Pylades, tenor; Thoas, high bass; a grand woman’s part, Iphigenia, soprano; a small one, Diana, mezzo-soprano. The costumes you will not like, unfortunately; the Scythians are ragged savages on the shores of the Black Sea; Orestes and Pylades are shipwrecked Greeks. Pylades alone has two dresses—in the fourth act he comes in in a helmet——”

“A helmet!” cried Jullien, excitedly; “we are saved! I’ll write to Paris for a golden helmet with a pearl coronet, and an ostrich plume as long as my arm. We’ll have forty performances.”

“Prodigious!” as good Dominie Sampson says.

Needless to say, nothing happened. Reeves, the divine tenor, laughed at the bare idea of singing Pylades, and Jullien quitted London shortly after, leaving his theatre to go to pieces.