XXXIV 1863—GATHERING TWILIGHT

Nearly ten years since I finished my memoir and during that time my life has been as full of incident as ever.

But since, for nothing on earth would I go through the labour of writing again, I must just indicate the chief points.

My work is over; Othello’s occupation’s gone. I no longer compose, conduct, write either prose or verse. I have resigned my post of musical critic and wish to do nothing more. I only read, think, fight my deadly weariness of soul and suffer from the incurable neuralgia that tortures me night and day.

To my great surprise I have been elected a member of the Academy and my relations with my colleagues are, throughout, pleasant and friendly.

In 1855 Prince Napoleon desired me to arrange a great concert in the Exhibition building for the day upon which the Emperor was to distribute the prizes.

I accepted on condition that I had no pecuniary responsibility, and M. Ber, a generous and brave impresario, came forward and treated me most liberally.

These concerts (for there were several besides the official one) brought me in eight thousand francs.

In a raised gallery behind the throne I had placed twelve hundred musicians, who were barely heard. Not that that mattered much on the day of the ceremony, for I was stopped at the most interesting point of the very first piece (the Imperial Cantata which I had written for the occasion) because the Prince had to make his speech and the music was lasting too long!!

However the next day the paying public was admitted and we took seventy-five thousand francs. This time I brought the orchestra down into the body of the hall, with fine effect.

I sent to Brussels for an electrician I knew, who made me a five-wired metronome so that by the single movement of my left hand, I could mark time for the five deputy conductors placed at different points of the enormous space.

The ensemble was marvellous.

Since then most of the theatres have adopted electric metronomes for the guidance of chorus-masters behind the scenes. The Opera alone refused; but, when I undertook the supervision of Alcestis, I introduced it.

In these Palais de l’Industrie concerts the finest effects were obtained from broad, grand, simple and somewhat slow movements, such as the chorus from Armida, the Tibi omnes of my Te Deum and the Apotheosis of my Funeral Symphony.

Letters to Ferrand and Louis Berlioz from 1858 to 1863.

To Humbert Ferrand.

“November 1858.—I have nothing to tell you, I simply want to write. I am ill, miserable (how many I’s to each line!) Always I and me! One’s friends are for oneself, it ought to be oneself for one’s friends.

“My dejection melts away as I write; for pity’s sake let us write oftener! These years of silence are insupportable.

“Think how horribly quickly we are dying and how much good your letters do me!

“Last night I dreamt of music, this morning I recalled it all and fell into one of those supernal ecstasies.... All the tears of my soul poured forth as I listened to those divinely sonorous smiles that radiate from the angels alone. Believe me, dear friend, the being who could write such miracles of transcendent melody would be more than mortal.

“So sings great Michael as, erect upon the threshold of the empyrean, he dreamily gazes down upon the worlds beneath.

“Why, oh, why! have I not such an orchestra that I, too, could sing this archangelic song!

“Back to this lower earth! I am interrupted. Vulgar, commonplace, stupid life! Oh! that I had a hundred cannon to fire all at once!

“Good-bye. I feel better. Forgive me!”

“6th July 1861.—The Trojans has been accepted for the Opera, but I cannot tell when they will produce it as Gounod and Gervaert have to come first. But I am determined to worry myself no more; I will not court Fortune, I will lie in bed and await her.

“All the same, I could not resist a little uncourtly frankness when the Empress asked me when she should hear The Trojans.

“‘I do not know, madame, I begin to think one must live a hundred and fifty years in order to get a hearing at the Opera.’

“The annoying part is that, thanks to these delays, my work is getting a sort of advance reputation that may injure it in the end.

“I am getting on with a one-act opera for Baden, written round Shakespeare’s Much Ado About Nothing. It is called Beatrice and Benedict; I promise there shall not be much Ado in the shape of noise in it. Benazet, the king of Baden, wants it next year.

“An American director has offered me an engagement in the Disunited States; but his proposals are unavailing in view of my unconquerable antipathy to his great nation, and my love of money is not sufficiently great to prick me on. I do not know whether your love for American utilitarian manners and customs is any more intense than my own.

“In any case, it would be a great mistake to go far from Paris now; at any moment they might want The Trojans.”

“30th June 1862.—In my bereavement I can write but little.

“My wife is dead—struck down in a moment by heart disease. The frightful loneliness, after the wrench of this sudden parting, is indescribable. Forgive me for not saying more.”

To Louis Berlioz.

“January 1858.—Perhaps you have heard that a band of ruffians surrounded the Emperor’s carriage as he went to the opera. They threw a bomb that killed and wounded both men and horses, but, by great good luck, did not touch the Emperor; and the charming Empress did not lose her head for a moment. The courage and presence of mind of both were perfect.

“I have just had a long letter from M. von Bulow, Liszt’s son-in-law, who married Mlle. Cosima. He tells me that he performed my Cellini overture with the greatest success at a Berlin concert. He is one of the most fervent disciples of that crazy school of the ‘Music of the Future,’ as they call it in Germany.”

“They stick to it, and want me to be their leader and standard-bearer, but I write nothing, say nothing, but just let them go their way. Good sense will teach reasonable people the truth.”

“May 1858.—The foreign mail leaves to-morrow, and I must have a chat with you, dear Louis. I long for news. Are you well? happy?

“Here we are rather miserable. I am somewhat better, but my wife is nearly always in bed and in pain.”

“November 1860.—Dear Boy,—Here is a hundred-franc note. Be sure to acknowledge it. I am thankful you are better. I, too, think my disease is wearing itself out. I am certainly better since I gave up remedies. Ideas for my little opera throng in so fast that I cannot find time to write; sometimes I begin a new one before I finish the old.”

“You ask how I manage to crowd Shakespeare’s five acts into one. I have taken only one subject from the play—the part in which Beatrice and Benedict, who detest each other, are mutually persuaded of each other’s love, whereby they are inspired with true passion. The idea is really comic.”

“14th February 1861.—It worries me to hear of your state of mind.

“I cannot imagine what dreams have made your present life so impossible. All I can say is that I was, at your age, far from being as well off as you are.

“Nay, more; I never dared to hope that, so soon after getting your captain’s certificate, you would find a berth.

“It is natural that you should wish to get on, but sometimes the chances of one year bring more change into a man’s life than ten years of strenuous endeavour.

“How can I teach you patience? Your mania for marriage would make me laugh were I not saddened by seeing you striving after the heaviest of all fetters and after the sordid vexations of domestic life—the most hopeless and exasperating of all lives. You are twenty-six, and have eighteen hundred francs, with a prospect of rapid promotion. When I married your mother I was thirty, and had but three hundred francs in the world—lent me by my friend Gounet—and the balance of my Prix de Rome scholarship.

“Then there were your mother’s debts—nearly fourteen thousand francs—which I paid off gradually, and the necessity of sending money to her mother in England, besides which I had quarrelled with my family, who cast me off, and was trying hard to make my first small mark in the musical world.

“Compare my hardships with your present discontent! Even now, do you think it is very lively for me to be bound to this infernal galley-oar of journalism?

“I am so ill I can hardly hold my pen, yet I am forced to write for my miserable hundred francs, the while my brain teems with work and plans and designs that fall dead—thanks to my slavery.

“You are well and strong, while I writhe in ceaseless, incurable pain. Marie[25] thanks you for your kind messages. She, too, is ill. Dear boy! you have at least a father, friend, devoted brother, who loves you more than you seem to think, but who wishes that your character were firmer, your mind more decided.

“21st February 1861.—Wagner is turning our singers into goats. It seems impossible to disentangle this Tannhäuser. I hear that the last general rehearsal was awful, and only finished at one in the morning. I suppose they will get through somehow.

“Liszt is coming to prop up the charivari.

“I have refused to write the critique, and have asked d’Ortigue to do it. It is best for every reason, and besides, it will disappoint them! Never did I have so many windmills to run a-tilt of as I have this year. I am deluged with fools of every species, and am choking with anger.

“5th March 1861.—The Tannhäuser scandal grows apace. Everyone is raging. Even the Minister left the rehearsal in a towering passion. The Emperor is far from pleased; yet there are still a few honest enthusiasts left—even among French people.

“Wagner is decidedly mad. He will die of apoplexy, just as Jullien did last year.

“Liszt never came after all. I think he expected a fiasco. They have spent a hundred and sixty thousand francs over mounting the opera. Well, we shall see what Friday brings forth.”

“21st March 1861.—The second performance of Tannhäuser was worse than the first. No more laughter, the audience was too furious, and, regardless of the presence of the Emperor and Empress, hissed unmercifully. Coming out, Wagner was vituperated as a scoundrel, an idiot, an impertinent wretch. If this goes on, one day the performance will stop abruptly in the middle, and there will be an end of the whole thing.

“The press is unanimous in damning it.”

“18th April 1861.—Write, dear Louis, if you can, without the cruel knife-thrusts you gave me in your last letter.

“I am worse than usual to-day, and have not strength to begin my article. I had an ovation at the Conservatoire after the performance of Faust. I dined with the Emperor a week ago, and exchanged a few words with him. I was magnificently bored.”

“2nd June 1861.—You are worried, and I can do nothing for you. Alexis is trying to find you a position in Paris, but is unsuccessful. I am as inefficient as he is. You alone can command your fate. They wish me to bring out Alcestis at the Opera as I did Orpheus at the Théâtre Lyrique, and offer me full author’s rights, but I have refused for various reasons.

“They believe that, for money, artists will stultify their consciences; I mean to prove that their belief is false.[26]

“My obstinacy has offended many. Instead of amusing themselves by spoiling Gluck’s chef d’œuvre, I wish they would spend their money over mounting The Trojans. But of course they won’t, since it is the obvious thing to do! Liszt has conquered the Emperor; he played at Court last week, and has been given the Legion of Honour.

“Ah, if one only plays the piano!”

“28th October 1861.—Dear Louis,—Did I not know what a terrible effect disappointment has on even the best characters, I should really feel inclined to let you have some home truths. You have wounded me mortally with a deliberate calmness that shows you were master of your language. But I can forgive, for you are not a bad son after all.

“You go too far. Is it my fault that I am not rich, that I could not let you live idly in Paris with a wife and children? Is there a shadow of justice in reproaching me as you do? For nearly three months you keep silence, then comes this ironical letter! My poor dear boy, it is not right.

“Don’t worry about your debt to the tailor; send me the bill and I will pay him.

“You ask me to beg a post for you. From whom? You know there never was a more awkward man than I at asking favours.

“Good-bye, dear son, dear friend, dear unlucky boy—unlucky by your own fault, not by mine.”

“17th June 1862.—You have received my letter and telegram,[27] but I write to ask whether you can come to me in Baden on the 6th or 7th August, as I know you would enjoy hearing the last rehearsals and first performance of my opera. In my leisure moments you would be my companion, you would see my friends, we should be together.

“Could you leave your ship so near its date for sailing?

“I am not sure how much money I can send you. The expenses of that sad ceremony—the transference from St Germain—will be great.

“I am rather afraid, too, of trusting you in a gambling town, but if you will give me your word of honour not to stake a single florin I will trust you.

“My mother-in-law came back yesterday just after I had left home to find only her daughter’s body. She is nearly frantic and is constantly watched by a friend who came to our help. Think of the anguish! Write soon, my dear, dear boy.”

“Baden, 10th August 1862.—Beatrice was applauded from end to end, and I was recalled more times than I could count. My friends were delighted, but I was quite unmoved, for it was one of my days of excruciating pain and nothing seemed to matter.

“To-day I am better and can enjoy their congratulations.

“You will be pleased too, but why have you left me so long without a letter? Why do they keep transferring you from boat to boat? Do not write here again as I soon go back to Paris. Now I am called and must go and thank my radiant singers.”

To H. Ferrand.

“Paris, 21st August 1862.—I am just home from Baden, where Beatrice obtained a real triumph.

“I always fly to you, be my news good or evil, I am so sure of your loving interest. Would you had been there! it would have recalled the night of the Childhood of Christ.

“Foes and conspirators stayed in Paris, artists and authors journeyed to Baden to be present; Madame Charton-Demeur was perfect, both as singer and actress.

“But can you believe that my neuralgia was too bad that day for me to take interest in anything? I took my place at the conductor’s desk, before that cosmopolitan audience, to direct an opera of which I had written both words and music, absolutely, deadly impassible. Whereby I conducted better than usual. I was much more nervous at the second performance.

“Benazet, who always does things royally, spent outrageously in every department. He has splendidly inaugurated the new theatre and has created a furore. They want to give Beatrice at the Opera Comique, but there is no one to do the heroine since Madame Charton-Demeur is going to America.

“You would laugh at the critiques. People are finding out that I have melody; that I can be gay—in fact, really comic; that I am not noisy, which is rather obvious, since the heavy instruments are conspicuous by their absence.

“How much patience I should need were I not so completely indifferent. Dear friend, I suffer a perfect martyrdom daily from four in the morning till four in the afternoon. What is to become of me? I do not tell you this to make you patient under your own afflictions—my woes are no compensation to you.

“I simply cry unto you as one does to those who love and are loved. Adieu! Adieu!”

“26th August 1862.—How I should love to come to you, as Madame Ferrand wishes! But I have much to do here owing to my wife’s death, and Louis has resigned his commission and is stranded. Besides, I am busy enlarging my Beatrice.

“I am trying to cut or untie all the bonds that hold me to Art, that I may be able to say to Death, ‘When thou wilt.’

“I dare not complain when I think of what you bear.

“Are sufferings like ours the inevitable result of our organisation? Must we be punished for having worshipped the Beautiful throughout our lives? Probably.

“We have drunk too deeply of the enchanted cup; we have pursued our ideals too far.

“Still, dear friend, you have a devoted wife to help you to bear your cross. You know nothing of the dread duet beating, night and day, into your brain—the joint voices of world-weariness and isolation!

“God grant you never may! It is saddening music.

“Good-bye! My gathering tears would make me write words that would grieve you yet more. Again, good-bye!”

“3rd March 1863.—Your suppositions with regard to my depression are fortunately wrong; Louis has certainly worried me terribly, but I have forgiven him; he has found a ship and is now in Mexico.

“No; my trouble was Love. A love unsought that met me smiling, that I did not seek, that I even fought against for awhile.

“But my loneliness, my unceasing yearning for affection, conquered me; first I let myself be loved, then I more than loved in return, and at last a separation became inevitable—a separation absolute as death. That is all. I am slowly recovering, but health such as this is sad. I will say no more....

“I am glad my Beatrice pleases you. I am going to Weimar, where it is now in rehearsal, to conduct a few performances in April, then I shall come back to this wilderness—Paris.

“Pray, dear friend, that my apathy may become complete, for otherwise I shall have a hard time while The Trojans is in rehearsal.

“Good-bye; when I see your dear writing on my desk it calms me for the day. Never forget that.”