XXXI MY FATHER’S DEATH—MEYLAN

Already saddened on my return to Paris by the havoc and ruin caused by the Revolution, it was but my usual fate to suffer in addition, the terrible sorrow of losing my father.

My mother had died ten years before, and, bitter as was that blow, it was but light in comparison with the wrench of parting with this dearly loved and sympathetic friend.

We had so much in common, our tastes were similar in so many ways, and, since he had gladly acknowledged himself in the wrong over my choice of a profession, we had been so entirely at one.

Ah! that I could have gratified his ardent wish to hear my Requiem, but it was not to be.

I pass over the sorrow of my home-coming, the meeting with my grief-worn sisters, the sight of his empty chair, of his watch—still living, though he was dead!

A strange wish to indulge the luxury of grief crept over me; I must drink this wormwood cup to the dregs; I must revisit Meylan—the early home of my Mountain Star—and live over again my early love and sorrow.

Even now my heart beats faster as I recall my journey. Thirty-three years ago and I, a ghost, come back to my early haunts! As I climb through the vineyards the thoughts, the aspirations, the desires of my childish days crowd in upon me.

Here did I sit with my father, playing Nina to him on my flute; there did Estelle stand.

I turn and take in the whole picture; that blessed house, the garden, the valley, the river, and the far-off Alpine glaciers.

Once more I am young; life and love—a glorious poem—lie before me; on my knees I cry to the hills, the valleys, the heavens: “Estelle! Estelle!”

Bleed, my heart, bleed! but leave me still the power to suffer!

I rise and wander on, noting each familiar point. Here is her cherry tree; there still flowers the plant of everlasting pea from which she plucked blossoms. Sweet plant! bloom on in thy solitude! Good-bye! good-bye!

Good-bye to my childhood, to my lost love—Time sweeps me on; Stella! Stella!

The cold hand of Death lies heavy on my heart, yet around me are soft sunlight, solitude, and silence.

Next day I asked my cousin Victor:

“Do you know Madame F——?”

“The lovely Estelle D——, do you mean?”

“Yes, I loved her so when I was twelve—I love her yet.”

“You idiot,” said Victor, laughing, “she is fifty-one, and has a son of twenty-two.”

He laughed again, and I laughed too, but mine was the cry of despair, an April gleam through the rain.

“Nevertheless I want to see her.”

“Hector, I beg you will do no such thing. You will make a fool of yourself and upset her.”

“I want to see her,” I repeated doggedly, with clenched teeth.

“Fifty-one!” he cried again, “you had much better keep your bright, fresh, youthful memory of her.”

“Well, then, I will write.”

He gave me a pen, and subsided into an armchair in fits of laughter, while my incoherent, despairing letter was composed. I sent it, but no reply came. When next I go to Grenoble I mean to see her.

In May 1851 I was commissioned by Government to judge instruments at the London Exhibition, and wrote to Joseph d’Ortigue in June 1851—

“I want to tell you of the extraordinary impression made on me by the singing of six thousand Charity School children in St Paul’s Cathedral. It is an annual affair, and is, beyond compare, the most imposing, the most Babylonian ceremony I ever witnessed.

“It was a realisation of part of my dreams, and proof positive of the unknown power of vast musical masses.

“This fact is no more understood on the Continent than is Chinese music.

“By-the-bye, France is easily first in the manufacture of musical instruments. Erard, Sax and Vuillaume lead; all the others are of the reed-pipe and tin-kettle tribe.”

To Lwoff.

“January 1852.—It is impossible to do anything in Paris, so next month I shall go back to England, where, at least, the wish to love music is real and persistent. If I can be of the least use to you in my newspaper articles, commend me, dear master. It will be a pleasure to tell our few earnest French readers of the great and good things that are done in Russia. It is a debt I shall gladly pay, since I never shall forget the warmth of my reception and the kindness of your Empress and your great Emperor’s family.

“What a pity he himself does not like music!”

To J. d’Ortigue.

“London, March 1852.—Just a line to tell you of my colossal success. Recalled I know not how often, and applauded both as composer and conductor. This morning, in the Times, the Morning Post, the Advertiser, and others, such effusions as never were written before about me! Beale is wild with joy, for it really is an event in the musical world. The orchestra at times surpassed all that I have heard in verve, delicacy and power.

“All the papers except the Daily News puff me, and now I am preparing Beethoven’s Choral Symphony, which, so far, has been sadly mutilated here.

“But can you believe that all the critics are against the Vestal, of which we performed the first part yesterday?

“I am utterly cast down at this lapsus judicii—am I not weak?—and am ashamed of having succeeded at such a cost. Why can I not remember that the good, the beautiful, the true, the false, the ugly, are not the same to everyone?”

“May 1852.—You speak of the expenses of our concerts; they are enormous. Every impresario in London expected to lose this year. In fact Beale, in the programme of the last concert, actually told the public that the Choral Symphony rehearsals had swallowed more than a third of the subscription.

“However, it has had a miraculous effect, and my success as conductor was great also; indeed, it was such an event in the musical world that people greatly doubted whether we should carry it through.”

“June 1852.—I leave to-morrow. How I shall regret my glorious chorus and orchestra! Those beautiful women’s voices!

“If only you had been here to hear our second performance of the Choral Symphony. The effect in that enormous Exeter Hall was most imposing.

“Paris once more! where I must forget these melodious joys in my daily task of critic—the only one left me in my precious native land!

“A naïf Birmingham amateur was heard the other day regretting that I had not been engaged for the Birmingham Festival. ‘For I hear,’ said he, ‘that Berlioz really is better than Costa!!!’”

To Louis Berlioz.

“1852.—You say you are going mad! You must actually be mad to write me such letters in the midst of the strenuous fatigue of my present life.

“In your last letter from Havana you say you will arrive home with a hundred francs. Now you say you owe forty. Now remember! I shall take no notice in future of the nonsense you talk.

“You chose your own profession—a hard one, I grant you, but the hardest part is over. Only five more months, and you will be in port for six months studying, after which you will be able to earn your own living.

“I am putting aside money for your expenses during those six months. I can do no more.

“What is this about torn shirts? Six weeks in Havana, and all your clothes ruined! At that rate you will want dozens of shirts every five months. You must be laughing at me.

“Please weigh your language in writing to me. I do not like your present style. Life is not strewn with roses, and I can give you no career but that which you yourself chose. It is too late to alter now.”

To J. d’Ortigue.

“January 1854.—Yes, dear d’Ortigue, you are right. It is my ungovernable passion for Art that is the cause of all my trouble, all my real suffering. Forgive me for letting you read between the lines. I knew it would hurt you, and yet I could not hold back the words that burnt me, although I might have known that your opinions on Art would be in accord with your religious feelings.

“You know that I love the beautiful and the true, but I have another love quite as ardent—the love of love.

“And when for some idea, some misunderstanding, I feel that my love may be lessened, something within me bursts asunder, and I cry like a child with a broken toy.

“I know it is puerile, but it is true, although I do my best to cure myself. Like a true Christian, you have punished me by returning good for evil.

“Your notes are capital, and I think I shall be able to use them, though never did I feel less in the mood for writing.

“I cannot make a beginning. And I am sad—so sad! Life is slipping away. I long to work, and am obliged to drudge in order to live. Adieu, adieu.”