Hector Berlioz

“ Months passed in this state of numb despair, my only lucid moments being dreams of Shakespeare and of Miss Smithson—now the darling of Paris—and dreary comparisons between her brilliant triumphs and my sad obscurity.
As I gradually awoke to life again, a plan began to take shape in my mind. She should hear of me; she should know that I also was an artist; I would do what, so far, no French artist had ever done—give a concert entirely of my own works. For this three things were needed—copies, hall, and performers. ”

“ In an artist’s life sometimes wild tempests succeed each other with bewildering rapidity, and so it was with me about this time.
Hardly had I recovered from the successive shocks of Weber and Shakespeare, when above my horizon burst the sun of glorious Beethoven to melt for me that misty inmost veil of the holiest shrine in music, as Shakespeare had lifted that of poetry.
To Habeneck, with all his shortcomings, is due the credit of introducing the master he adored to Paris. ”

“ The magnificent setting, the blended harmonies of orchestra and chorus, the sympathetic and beautiful voice of Madame Branchu, the rugged force of Dérivis, Hypermnestra’s air—which so vividly recalled Gluck’s style, made familiar to me by the scraps of Orpheus I had found in my father’s library—all this, intensified by the sad and voluptuous dance-music of Spontini, sent me up to fever-pitch of excitement and enthusiasm. ”

“ That Paris—the apotheosis of industrialism in Art—that casts a scornful eye upon me, holding me only too honoured in fulfilling my calling of pamphleteer, for which alone, it holds, I came into the world. I know what I could do with dramatic music, but to try it would be both useless and dangerous.
There is no suitable theatre; I must be absolute dictator of a grand orchestra; I must have the eager good-will of all, from prima-donna to scene-shifter; my theatre must be a gigantic musical instrument. ”

“ The other—coming in my manhood with my worship of Shakespeare—took possession of me and overwhelmed me completely. Love of Art and the artist intermingled, each acting upon and intensifying the other.
Those who cannot understand this will still less understand my vague poetic longings at the scent of a lovely rose, the sight of a beautiful harp. Estelle was the rose that bloomed alone, Henriette the harp that shared my music, my joys, my sorrows and of which alas! I snapped so many, many strings!
To Louis Berlioz. ”

“ Of all the millionaires in Paris none thinks of doing anything for music. Paganini’s example was not followed, and the great artist’s gift to me stands alone.
No; a composer of classical music must be absolutely independent or must resign himself to all the miseries from which I suffered—to incomplete rehearsals, to inconvenient concert halls, to checks of every foreseen and unforeseen kind, and to the rapacity of the hospital tax-gatherers, who seize one-eighth of the gross receipts. ”

“ The audience did not seem inclined to leave and loudly called for the symphony, one voice in the gallery shouting, “Give us the Marche au Supplice!”
“How can I,” cried I, “perform such a thing with five violins? Is it my fault that the orchestra has disappeared?”
I was crimson with rage and shame.
With disappointed murmurs the people melted away. Of course my enemies announced that my music “drove musicians out of the place.”
That miserable evening brought in seven thousand francs, which went into the gulf of my wife’s debts without, alas! filling it up. ”

“ The natural result of constantly reading Florian’s Estelle was that I ended by setting parts of that mawky pastoral to music.
The faded old-time poetry comes back to me as I write here in London, in the pale spring sunshine. Torn as I am by anxiety, worried by sordid, petty obstacles, by stupid opposition to my plans, it is strange to recall the sickly-sentimental words of a song I wrote in despair at leaving the Meylan woods, which were “lighted by the eyes”—and, may I add, by the little pink slippers of my cruel lady love. ”

“ Add to that the scirocco, the incessant yearning for my beloved art, my sorrowful memories, the misery of being for two years exiled from the musical world, and the utter impossibility of composing in that stagnating atmosphere, and it will hardly be wondered at that I was as savage as a trained bull-dog, and that the well-meant efforts of my friends to divert me only drove me to the verge of madness.
I remember in one of my Campagna rides with Mendelssohn expressing my surprise that no one had ever written a scherzo on Shakespeare’s sparkling little poem Queen Mab. ”

“ Ah, why do not the thrice-gifted ones of this world know of the passionate love and devotion their works inspire! If they could but divine the suppressed admiration of a few faithful hearts! Would they not gladly gather these chosen disciples about them to become a bulwark against the shafts of envy, hatred, malice, and luke-warm tolerance of which a thoughtless world makes them the target!
Weber was justly angry when he found out how Castilblaze—veterinary surgeon of music—had butchered his beautiful work, and he published a complaint before leaving Paris. ”

“ First he went to Berlioz, who had flatly refused to make the slightest concession to Adam’s prejudices.
“Come,” said he, “do at least be amiable to Adam; you cannot deny that he is a musician, at any rate.”
“I don’t say he is not; but, being a great musician, how can he lower himself to comic-opera? If he chose he could write such music as I do.”
Undismayed, Alexandre went to Adam.
“You will give your vote to Berlioz, will you not, dear friend? Although you cannot appreciate each other, you will own that he is a thorough musician.” ”

“ 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! ”

“ 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?” ”

“ Rather than go back to him, she says she will drown herself and my idea is to take her to Berlin, and by Spontini’s influence, place her in some chorus. I will try and make her love me, and if I succeed, I will fan into life the smouldering embers in my own heart and persuade myself that I love her. My passport is ready; I must make an end of things here. Henriette will be miserable but I have nothing to reproach myself with. ”

“ 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. ”

“ There stands the real Berlioz—musician and poet; eager to drain life to the dregs, be they sweet or bitter, to taste the fulness of being. There we find a faithful record of thoughts, feelings, aspirations, and a reflection of every passing mood. With one notable exception: even to Ferrand he never admitted that the poor reception of The Trojans (for it met with but a succès d’estime) broke his heart.
As a record of events the Autobiography is deficient, and after 1848 becomes a mere sketch. ”

“ I thought, “things will be on a magnificent scale,” and my vivid imagination raced off to the glories of Solomon’s Temple and the colossal pageants of ancient Egypt. Cruel gift of Nature that clothes dull life in a golden veil! It simply made more appalling and impossible the shrill nasal voices of the singers, the quacking clarinets, the bellowing trombones, and the rampant vulgarity of the big drums. It was brutal unadulterated cacophony.
Rome calls this military music! ”

“ You need not fear for me with Henriette Smithson. I am no longer in danger in that quarter; I pity and despise her. She is nothing but a commonplace woman with an instinct for expressing the tortures of the soul that she has never felt; she is quite incapable of appreciating the noble, all-devouring love with which I honoured her.
“The rehearsals of my symphony begin in three days; all the parts are copied—there are two thousand three hundred pages. I hope to goodness we shall have good receipts to pay for it all. The concert takes place on the 30th May. And you alone will not be there! ”

“ THE LIFE OF BERLIOZ
I
LA CÔTE SAINT-ANDRÉ Decidedly ours is a prosaic century. On no other grounds can my wounded vanity account for the humiliating fact that no auspicious omens, no mighty portents—such as heralded the birth of the great men of the golden age of poetry—gave notice of my coming. It is strange, but true, that I was born, quite unobtrusively, at La Côte Saint-André, between Vienne and Grenoble, on the 11th December 1803. ”

“ Dear Friend,—All that the most tender delicate love can give is mine. My exquisite sylph, my Ariel, loves me more than ever and her mother says that, had she read of love like mine, she could not have believed it.
“I am shut up in the Institute for the last time, for the prize shall be mine this year, our happiness hangs on it. Every other day Madame Moke sends her maid with messages. Can you credit it, Humbert? This angel, with the finest talent in Europe, is mine! I hear that M. de Noailles, in whom her mother believes greatly, has pleaded my cause, despite my want of money. ”

“ I hurried to the Pergola Theatre.
What a disappointment! No ball, no Mercutio, no babbling nurse, no balcony scene, no Shakespeare!
And Romeo sung by a small thin woman, Juliet by a tall stout one. Why—in the name of all things musical—why?
Do they think that women’s voices sound best together? Then why not do away with men’s entirely?{110}
Why should Juliet’s lover be deprived of all virility? Could a woman or a child have slain Tybalt, having burst the gates of Juliet’s tomb and stretched County Paris a corpse at his feet? ”

“ I must find consolation in the thought that she knew me too late, just as I comfort myself for not having known Virgil, Gluck, Beethoven or Shakespeare—who might, perhaps, have loved me too.
(All the same, I am not comforted in the very least!)
Which power raises man the higher? Love or Music? It is a great question. It seems to me that one might say this: “Love cannot give an idea of music, but music can give an idea of love—why separate them?” ”

“ In order to please the management of the Débats, Duponchel, manager of the Opera—who looked upon me as a species of lunatic—read the libretto and agreed to take my opera. After which he went about saying that he was going to put it on, not on account of the music, which was ridiculous, but of the book, which was charming.
Never shall I forget the misery of those three months’ rehearsals. The indifference of the actors, riding for a fall, Habeneck’s bad temper, the vague rumours I heard on all sides, all betrayed a general hostility against which I was powerless. ”

“ 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. ”

“ But is not this the ruin of Art? Ought not we, who love and honour her, who are jealous for the prescriptive rights of human intellect, to hound down and annihilate the transgressor; to cry aloud:
“Thy crime is ridiculous. Thy stupidity beneath{50} contempt. Despair and die! Be thou contemned, be thou derided, be thou accursed! Despair and die!!!”
My devotion to Gluck and Spontini at first somewhat blinded me to the glories of Mozart. Not only had I a prejudice against Italian, both language and singers, but in Don Giovanni the composer has written a passage that I call simply criminal. ”

“ Then, in the foyer of the Opera, I took the stringed instruments from eight till twelve, and the wind from twelve to four. My throat was on fire, my voice gone, my right arm almost paralysed. One day I should have been ill with thirst and fatigue had not a kind chorus-singer had the humanity to bring me a large glass of hot wine.
The players of the Opera made me as much trouble as possible; they learnt that the outside performers were to have twenty francs a piece, so they demanded a like sum.
“Not for the money,” said they, “but for the honour of the Opera.” ”

“ I felt triumphant, and took care to go round next day. We spoke of nothing but the masterpiece we had heard; yet he seemed to reply to my ravings rather constrainedly. Still I persevered, until, after dragging out of him another acknowledgment of his heart-felt appreciation, he ended, with a curious smile:
“Yes, it’s all very well; but such music ought not to be written.”
“No fear, dear master,” I retorted; “there will never be too much of it!”
Poor human nature! Poor master! ”

“ On the horizon the Alpine glaciers shone in the rising sun. Here was Meylan; far over those mountains lay Italy, Naples, Posilippo—the whole world of my story. Oh! for the wings of a dove, to leave this clogging earth-bound body! Oh! for life at its highest and best ”