XXXVII THE AFTERGLOW

To Humbert Ferrand.

“Paris, 28th October 1864.—Dear Humbert,—On returning from my visit to Dauphiny I found your sad letter. You must have had difficulty in writing, yet your young friend, M. Bernard, tells me you are able to go out sometimes, leaning on a friendly arm.

“When first I went into the country my neuralgia was better, but very soon it came back worse than ever, from eight in the morning till four in the afternoon.

“Then, oh! my weariness and troubles of all sorts!

“Nevertheless, there are compensations. Louis is doing well, though our long partings are hard to bear, for we love each other dearly.

“As for the musical world, the corruption in Paris is beyond belief, and I retire more and more into my shell.

“Beatrice is to be performed in Stuttgart, and I may go to conduct it. I am also asked to go to St Petersburg in March, but shall not do so unless they offer me a sum tempting enough to make me brave that horrible climate. Then I shall do it for Louis’ sake, for of what use are a few thousand francs more to me?

“I cannot imagine why some people have taken to flattering me so grossly. Their compliments are enough to scrape the paint off the walls, and I long to say to them:

“‘Monsieur, you forget that I am no longer a critic. I write no more for the papers.’

“The monotony of my life has been broken lately.

“Madame Erard, Madame Spontini and their niece begged me to read Othello to them. The door was rigorously closed to all comers, and I read the masterpiece through from beginning to end to my audience of six, who wept gloriously.

“Great heaven! What a revelation of the deepest depths of the human heart! That angel Desdemona, that noble fate-haunted Othello, that devil incarnate Iago! And to think that it was all written by a being like unto ourselves!

“It needs long, close study to put oneself in the point of view of the author, to follow the magnificent sweep of his mighty wings. And translators are such donkeys.

“Laroche is the best—most exact, least ignorant—yet I have to correct ever so many mistakes in my copy.

“Liszt has been here for a week, and we dined together twice.

“As we kept carefully off things musical we had a pleasant time. He has gone back to Rome to play the Music of the Future to the Pope, who asks himself what on earth it all means.”

“10th November 1864.—Can you believe, dear Humbert, that I have a grudge against the past? Why did I not know Virgil.

“I see him dreaming in his Sicilian villa—so hospitable, so gracious.

“And Shakespeare, that mighty Sphinx, impassible as a mirror, reflecting not creating. Yet what ineffable compassion must he not have had for poor, small, human things?

“And Beethoven, rough and scornful, yet blessed with such exquisite tenderness and delicacy that I think I could have forgiven him all his contempt, his rudeness, everything!

“And Gluck, the stately!...

“Last week M. Blanche, the doctor of the Passy lunatic asylum, invited a party of artists and savants to celebrate the anniversary of the performance of The Trojans.

“I was invited and kept entirely in the dark.

“Gounod was there. In his sweet, weak voice, but with the most perfect expression, he sang ‘O nuit d’ivresse’ with Madame Bauderali; then, alone, the song of Hylos.

“A young lady played the dances, and they made me recite without music Dido’s scena, ‘Va, ma sœur.’

“It had a fine effect. They all knew my score by heart. I longed to have you there.”

“Paris, 23rd December 1864.—I have just sent you a copy of La Nation, with two columns by Gasperini about The Trojans business at the Conservatoire. I did not know of that letter of Gluck. Where the devil did you get it? That is always the way. Beethoven was even more insulted than Gluck. Weber and Spontini share the honour.

“Only people like M. de Flotow, author of Martha, have panegyrists. His dull opera is sung in all languages, all theatres.

“I went to hear that delicious little Patti sing Martha the other day; when I came out I felt creepy all over, just as if I had come out of a fowlhouse—with consequences!

“I told the little prodigy of a girl that I would forgive her for making me listen to platitudes—that was the utmost I could do!

“But that exquisite Irish air, ‘The Last Rose of Summer,’ is introduced, and she sings it with such poetic simplicity that its perfume is almost enough to disinfect the rest of the score.

“I will send Louis your congratulations; he will be very pleased. He has read your letters and thinks me fortunate in having such a friend as you. Good-bye.”

To Madame Ernst.

“Paris, 14th December 1864.—You are really too good to have written to me, dear Madame Ernst, and I ought to reply in a sleek, smooth style, mouth nicely buttoned up, cravat well tied, myself all smiles and amiability. Well, I can’t!

“I am ill, miserable, disgusted, bored, idiotic, wearisome, cross, and altogether impossible. It is one of those days when I am in the sort of temper that I wish the earth were a charged bomb, that I might light the fuse for fun.

“The account of your Nice pleasures does not amuse me in the least.

“I should love to see you and your dear invalid, but I could not accept your offer of a room. I would rather live in the cave under the Ponchettes.

“There I could growl comfortably alongside Caliban (I know he lives there, I saw him one day), and the sea does not often come into it; whereas with friends, there are all sorts of unbearable attentions.

“They ask how you pass the night, but not how your ennui is getting on;[31] they laugh when you say silly things; are always mutely trying to find out whether you are sad or gay; they talk to you when you are only soliloquising, and then the husband says to the wife, ‘Do let him alone, don’t bother him,’ etc., etc. Then you feel a brute and go out, banging the door and feeling you have laid the train of a domestic quarrel.

“Now in Caliban’s grotto there is none of this.

“Well, never mind!

“You stroll on the terrace and along the shady walks? And then?

“You admire the sunsets? And then?

“You watch the tunny fishers? And then?

“You envy young English heiresses? And then?

“You envy still more the idiots without ideas or feelings who understand nothing and love nothing? And then?...

“Why, bless you, I can give you all that!

“We have terraces and trees in Paris. There are sunsets, English heiresses, idiots (they are even more plentiful than at Nice for the population is larger), and gudgeon to be caught with a line. One can be quite as extensively bored as at Nice. It is the same thing everywhere.

“Yesterday I had a delightful letter from some unknown man about The Trojans. He tells me that the Parisians are used to more indulgent music than mine.

“Is not that an admirable epithet?

“The Viennese telegraph that they celebrated my birthday by giving Faust, and that the double chorus was an immense success. I did not even know I had a birthday!”

To H. Ferrand.

“Paris, 8th February 1864.

“Dear Humbert,—It is six in the evening, and I have only just got up, for I took laudanum yesterday and am quite stupefied. What a life! I would bet a good deal that you too are worse. Nevertheless I mean to go out to-night to hear Beethoven’s Septuor; I want it to warm my blood, and my favourite artists are playing it.

“The day after to-morrow I ought to read Hamlet at Massart’s. Shall I have strength to go through it? It lasts five hours. Of my audience of five only Madame Massart knows anything of the play.

“I feel almost afraid of bringing these artist natures too abruptly face to face with this supreme manifestation of genius. It seems to me like giving sight suddenly to one born blind.

“I believe they will understand it, for I know them well; but to be forty-five or fifty and not know Hamlet! One might as well have lived down a coal mine. Shakespeare says:

“26th April 1865.—How can I tell you what is cooking in the musical cauldron of Paris? I have got out of it and hardly ever get in again.

“I went to a general rehearsal of Meyerbeer’s Africaine, which lasted from half-past seven to half-past one.

“I don’t think I am likely to go again.

“Joachim, the celebrated German violinist, has been here ten days; he plays nearly every evening at different houses. Thus I heard Beethoven’s piano trio in B♭♯, the sonata in A, and the quartett in E minor—the music of the starry spheres.

“You will quite understand that after this I am in no mood for listening to commonplace productions praised by the Mayor and Town Council.

“If I possibly can, I will see you this summer. I am going to Geneva and Grenoble.

To Louis Berlioz.

“Paris, 28th June 1865.—I hardly know why I am writing, for I have nothing to say. Your letter troubles me greatly. Now you say you dread being captain; you have no confidence in yourself, yet you wish to be appointed.

“You want a home instead of your quiet room; you want to marry—but not an ordinary woman. It is all easy to understand, but you must not shrink from the duties that alone will ensure your gaining your end.

“You are thirty-two, and if you do not realise the responsibility of life now, you never will.

“You need money; I can give you none; I find it difficult to make ends meet as it is. I will leave you what my father left me, perhaps a little more—but I cannot tell you when I shall die.

“In any case it must be ere long.

“So do not speak to me of desires I cannot satisfy.

“I, too, wish I had a fortune. First, that I might share it with you; and next, that I might travel and have my works performed.

“Remember, if you were married you would be a hundred times worse off than you are now. Take warning from me.

“Only a series of miracles—Paganini’s gift, my tour in Russia, etc., saved me from the most ghastly privations.

“Miracles are rare, else were they not miracles.

“Your letter has no ending. I feel as if you had suddenly realised the meaning of the world, society, pleasure, and pain.

“14th July 1865.—Yes, dear Louis, let us chat whenever we can. Your letter was most welcome, for yesterday life was hideous.

“I went out and wandered up and down the Boulevards des Italiens and des Capucines, until at half-past eight I felt hungry.

“I went into the Café Cardinal, and there found Balfe, the Irish composer, who asked me to dinner.

“Afterwards we went to the Grand Hotel, where he is staying, and I smoked an excellent cigar—which, all the same, made me ill this morning.

“We talked and talked of Shakespeare, whom he says he has only really understood during the last ten or twelve years.

“I never read the papers, so tell me where you saw those nice things you quote about me.

“Do you know that Liszt has become an abbé?

“You shall have a stitched copy of my Mémoires as soon as I get one, but I must have your solemn promise not to let it out of your own hands, and to return it when you have read it.”

To M. and Mme Damcke.[32]

“Hôtel de la Métropole, Geneva, 22nd August 1865.—Dear Friends,—I only write lest you should think yourselves forgotten. You know I do not easily forget, and, if I did, I could never lose remembrance of such friends as you.

“I am strangely and indescribably agitated here.

“Sometimes quite calm, at others full of uneasiness—even pain. I was most cordially welcomed. They like me to be with them, and chide me when I keep away.

“I stay there sometimes four hours at a time. We go long walks beside the lake. Yesterday we took a drive, but I am never alone with her, so can speak only of outward things, and I feel that the oppression of my heart will kill me.

“What can I do? I am unjust, stupid, unreasonable.

“They have all read the Mémoires. She reproached me mildly for publishing her letters, but her daughter-in-law said I was quite right, and I believe she was not really vexed.

“Already I dread the moment of departure. It is charming country, and the lake is most beautiful, pure and deep; yet I know something deeper, purer, and yet more beautiful....

“Adieu, dear friends.”

To Madame Massart.

“Paris, 15th September 1865.—Good afternoon, madame. How are you, and how is Massart?

“I am quite at sea, not finding you here.

“I have come back from Geneva just as ill as I went.

“At first I was better, but after a little the pain came again worse than ever.

“How lucky you are to be free from such trouble! Having a moment’s respite, I use it in writing to you.”

“You will either laugh, saying—or say, laughing, ‘Why write to me?’

“Probably you would rather that this preposterous idea had not entered my head, but there it is, and, if you find it mistimed, you have the remedy in your own hands—not to answer.

“All the same, the inner meaning of my letter is—to extract one from you. If only you could conceive the frightful impetuosity with which one bores oneself in Paris!

“I am alone, more than alone. I hear never a note of music—nothing but gibberish to right of me, gibberish to left of me. When will you be back? When shall I hear you play a sonata again? I often talked of you in Geneva, where I was petted, spoilt—and scolded a little, too.

“When you come back we will gather together our choice spirits, our good men and true, and read Coriolanus. I only really live in watching the enthusiasm of fresh sympathetic souls—undeadened by the world.

“I quite enjoyed at Vienne making my nieces cry over it. They are dear girls, impressionable as a photographic plate—which is rather odd, seeing that they have always lived in that most provincial of provinces, among utterly anti-literary people.

“My thick autobiography awaits you, but remember, it is yours only for the time it takes you and Massart to read it. It is very sad, but very true.

“I am quite ashamed that I had not the sense to speak of the many calm, sweet hours I owe to you, and of my deep affection for you both. I have only just noticed that you are not even mentioned.

“Ah, the pain! Madame, forgive me. I can write no more!”

To Louis Berlioz.

“13th November 1865.—Dear Boy,—Your letter has just come, and I want to reply before I go back to bed.

“How I suffer! If I could I would fly off to Palermo or to Nice.

“It is horrible weather. I have to light a lamp at half-past three.

“To-night is our Monday dinner, and as I shall have to get up and go to it, I want to snatch a little sleep first.

“I have had no letter from Geneva, but I did not expect one. When one comes my heart lightens and my spirits rise.

“My poor, dear boy. What should I do without you?

“Can you believe that I always loved you, even when you were tiny? I, who find it so difficult to like little children!

“There was always some attraction that drew me to you.

“It weakened when you got to the stupid stage and were a hobbledehoy. Since then it has come back, has increased, and now, as you know, I love you, and my love grows daily.”

To H. Ferrand.

“17th January 1866.—I am alone in the chimney corner writing to you.

“I was greatly excited this morning by the manager of the Théâtre Lyrique, who has asked me to supervise his intended revival of Armida. It will hardly suit his pettifogging world.

“Madame Charton-Demeurs, who undertakes the overpowering rôle of Armida, comes every day to rehearse with M. Saint-Saëns, a great pianist, a great musician, who knows his Gluck almost as well as I do.

“It is curious to see the poor lady floundering blindly in the sublime, and to watch the gradually dawning light.

“This morning, in the Hatred scene, Saint-Saëns and I could only grasp hands in silence—we were breathless!

“Never did human being find such expression! And to think that this masterpiece is vilified, blasphemed, insulted, attacked on all sides, even by those who profess to admire it. It belongs to another world. Why are you not here to enjoy it too!

“Will you believe that since I have taken to music again my pains have departed?

“I get up every day just like other people. But I have quite enough to endure with the actors, and, above all, with the conductor. It is coming out in April.

“Madame Fournier writes that a friend she met in Geneva spoke warmly of The Trojans. That is good, but I should have done better if I had written one of Offenbach’s atrocities.

“What will those toads of Parisians say to Armida?”

“8th March 1866.—Dear Humbert,—I am answering you this morning simply to tell you what happened yesterday at a great charity concert—with trebled prices—in the Cirque Napoléon, under Pasdeloup.

“They played the great Septuor from The Trojans, Madame Charton sang; there was a chorus of a hundred and fifty, and the usual fine orchestra.

“The whole programme was miserably received except the Lohengrin March, and the overture to the Prophet was so hissed that the police had to turn out the malcontents.

“Then came the Septuor. Endless applause, and an encore.

“The second time it went even better. The audience spied me on my three-franc bench (they had not honoured me with a ticket). There were more calls, shouts, waving of hats and handkerchiefs.

“‘Vive Berlioz!’ they cried. ‘Get up; we want to see you.’

“I, the while, trying to hide myself!

“Coming out, a crowd surrounded me on the boulevard. This morning many callers, and a charming letter from Legouvé’s daughter.

“Liszt was there. I saw him from my perch. He has just come from Rome. Why were you not there too?

“There were at least three thousand people. Once I should have been pleased....

“The effect was grand, particularly the sound of the sea (impossible to give on the piano) at the passage:

“It touched me profoundly.

“My gallery neighbours, hearing that I was the author of it, pressed my hands and thanked me.

“Why were you not there?”

“9th March.—Just a word added to what I wrote yesterday.

“A few amateurs have written me a round-robin of congratulation. The letter is a slightly altered copy of that which I wrote to Spontini twenty-two years ago about his Fernando Cortez.

“Is it not a pretty idea to apply to me what I said to him so long ago?”

To Madame Massart.

“3rd September 1866.—Such a misfortune, dear madame! This morning—yes, really only this morning—I composed the most clever and complimentary letter to you—a master-piece of delicate, dainty flattery. Then I went to sleep and—when I awoke it was all gone, and I am reduced to mere commonplaces.

“I will not speak of the boredom you must be suffering in your little card-board bandbox by the sea, lest I should drive you to commit suicide—by no means a suitable way out of the difficulty for a pretty woman!

“Yet, what on earth are you to do?

“You have gone the round of Beethoven over and over again; you have read Homer; you know some of Shakespeare’s best works; you see the sea every day; you have friends and a husband who worships you.

“Great heavens, what is to become of you?

“I do my best to make your sea-side life bearable by not coming near you. Can I do more?

“I ought to be at Geneva, but a cousin of mine is going to be married next week and wants me to be one of his witnesses.

“Could I refuse? One ought to help relations out of difficulties!

“Perrin also wishes me to superintend the rehearsals of Alcestis, but he dawdles so, waiting for Society to come back to Paris (as if there were Society for Alcestis!), that I am going to leave him stranded and start for Geneva.

“Ah! dear lady, how glorious it is! how grand! The other day at rehearsal we all wept like stags at bay.

“‘What a man Gluck was!’ cried Perrin.

“‘No,’ said I, ‘we are the men. Don’t get confused.’

“Taylor said yesterday that Gluck had more heart than Homer; truly, he is more thoroughly human.

“And we are going to offer this food for the gods to pure idiots!

“Is Massart shooting, fishing, painting, building, dreaming?

“He has covered himself with glory. His pupils have carried off all the prizes this year; he can wallow in laurels, though he certainly might find a more comfortable bed!

“Here ends my scribble; I press your learned hand.”

To Humbert Ferrand.

“10th November 1866.—Dear Humbert,—I ought to be in Vienna, but the concert is put off. I suppose that Faust was not learnt to their satisfaction, and they only wish me to hear it when it is nearly ready.

“It will be a real joy to listen to it again; I have not heard the whole of it since it was performed twelve years ago in Dresden.

“The Alcestis rehearsals have done me good; never did it appear so grand, and surely never before was it so finely rendered.

“A whole new generation has arisen to worship.

“The other day a lady near me sobbed so violently that every one around noticed her, and I got crowds of letters thanking me for my devoted care for Gluck.

“Ingres is not the only one of our Institute colleagues who comes constantly; most of the painters and sculptors love the beautiful Antique, of which the very sorrow is not disfiguring.

“I am sending you the pocket-score; you will easily read it and I am sure will enjoy it.”

To M. Ernest Reyer.

“Vienna, 17th December 1866.—Dear Reyer,—I only got up at four to-day, as yesterday over-did me.

“It would be foolish of me to describe the recalls, encores, tears, and flowers I received after the performance of Faust in the Salle de la Redoute; I had a chorus of three hundred, an orchestra of a hundred and fifty, and splendid soloists.

“This evening there is to be a grand fête; three hundred artists and amateurs—among them the hundred and fifty lady-amateurs who, with their sweet fresh voices, sang my choruses.

“How well, too, they had been trained by Herbeck, who first thought of giving my work in its entirety, and who would let himself be chopped in pieces for me.

“To-morrow I am invited by the Conservatoire to hear Helmesberger conduct my Harold.

“This has been the most perfect musical joy of my life, so forgive me if I say too much!

“Well! this is one score saved at any rate. They can play it now in Vienna under Herbeck, who knows it by heart.

“The Paris Conservatoire may leave me in outer darkness and stick to its antiquated repertoire if it likes.

“You have drawn down this tirade on your own head by asking me to write!

“Good-bye; I have been invited to Breslau to conduct Romeo and Juliet, but I must get back to Paris before the end of the month.”

To Humbert Ferrand.

“Paris, 11th January 1867.—It is midnight, dear friend. I write in bed, as usual; you will read my letter in bed—also as usual.

“Your last letter hurt me; I read the suffering between the lines. I wanted to reply at once, but my tortures, medical stupidity, doses of laudanum (all useless and productive only of evil dreams), prevented me.

“I see now how difficult it will be for us to meet. You cannot stir, and for three quarters of the year I cannot either. What are we to do?

“My journey to Vienna nearly made an end of me—even the warmth of their enthusiasm could not protect me from the rigours of their winter. This awful climate will be the death of me.

“Dear Louis writes of his morning rides in the forests of Martinique, and describes the lovely tropical vegetation—the real hot sun. That is what you and I both need.

“Dear friend, the dull rumbling of passing carriages breaks the silence of the night. Paris is damp, cold, and muddy—Parisian Paris!

“Now all is still; it sleeps the sleep of the unrighteous.

“Have you the full score of my Mass for the Dead? If I were threatened with the destruction of all that I have ever written, it would be for that Mass that I should beg life.

“Good-bye; I shall lie awake and think of you.”

To Ferdinand Hiller.

“Paris, 8th February 1867.—Dear Hiller,—You are the best of good friends!

“I will do as you bid me; take my courage in both hands, and on the 23rd start for Cologne.

“I shall be at the Hotel Royal by evening, but do not engage rooms for me, one tiny one is enough.

“If I cannot possibly travel, I will send on the orchestral score of the duet from Beatrice. It is very effective and not difficult—almost any singers could manage it, provided they were not geese.

“To be sure, we both have an intimate acquaintance with these winged fowl!

“You talk like the doctors. ‘It is neuralgia.’

“That is just like Madame Sand and her gardener.

“She told him the garden wall had tumbled down.

“‘Oh, it is nothing, madame, the frost did it.’

“‘Yes, but it must be rebuilt.’

“‘It’s only the frost, that’s all.’

“‘I do not say it is not the frost, but there it is on the ground.’

“‘Don’t worry about it, madame, the frost did it.’

“I can write no more. I must go to bed.”

To H. Ferrand.

“11th June 1867.—Thanks for your letter, dear friend, it did me good.

“Yes, I am in Paris, but so ill I can hardly write. Besides, I am worried about Louis, who is in Mexico, and I do not know what those Mexican ruffians may not be up to.

“The Exhibition is turning Paris into an Inferno. I have not been there yet, for I can hardly walk.

“Yesterday there was a great function at Court, but I was too weak to dress and go to it....

“I wrote so far at the Conservatoire, where I was one of the jury in awarding the Exhibition musical prize. We heard a hundred and four cantatas, and I had the very great pleasure of seeing the prize unanimously awarded to my young friend, Camille Saint-Saëns, one of the greatest musicians of our time.

“I have been urgently pressed to go to New York where, say the Americans, I am popular. They played Harold five times last year with success truly Viennese.

“I am quite elated with our jury meeting. How happy Saint-Saëns will be! I hurried off to tell him, but he was out with his mother.

“He is an astounding pianist.

“Well! at last our musical world has done something sensible; it makes me feel quite strong, I could not have written you such a long letter were it not for my joy.”