SubmittedFriday, 03 May 2019
three thousand francs
That made a total of three thousand francs, hardly gained on which he had to keep a wife and child–«même deux,» as M. Tiersot says. He attempted a festival at the Opera; the result was three hundred and sixty francs loss. He organised a festival at the 1844 Exhibition; the receipts were thirty-two thousand francs, out of which he got eight hundred francs. He had the Damnation de Faust performed; no one came to it, and he was ruined. Things went better in Russia; but the manager who brought him to England became bankrupt. He was haunted by thoughts of rents and doctors’ bills. Towards the end of his life his financial affairs mended a little, and a year before his death he uttered these sad words: «I suffer a great deal, but I do not want to die now–I have enough to live upon.»
One of the most tragic episodes of his life is that of the symphony which he did not write because of his poverty. One wonders why the page that finishes his Mémoires is not better known, for it touches the depths of human suffering.
At the time when his wife’s health was causing him most anxiety, there came to him one night an inspiration for a symphony. The first part of it–an allegro in two-four time in A minor–was ringing in his head. He got up and began to write, and then he thought,
«If I begin this bit, I shall have to write the whole symphony. It will be a big thing, and I shall have to spend three or four months over it. That means I shall write no more articles and earn no money. And when the symphony is finished I shall not be able to resist the temptation of having it copied (which will mean an expense of a thousand or twelve hundred francs), and then of having it played. I shall give a concert, and the receipts will barely cover half the cost. I shall lose what I have not got; the poor invalid will lack necessities; and I shall be able to pay neither my personal expenses nor my son’s fees when he goes on board ship…. These thoughts made me shudder, and I threw down my pen, saying, ‘Bah! to-morrow I shall have forgotten the symphony.’ The next night I heard the allegro clearly, and seemed to see it written down. I was filled with feverish agitation; I sang the theme; I was going to get up … but the reflections of the day before restrained me; I steeled myself against the temptation, and clung to the thought of forgetting it. At last I went to sleep; and the next day, on waking, all remembrance of it had, indeed, gone for ever.»[23]
That page makes one shudder. Suicide is less distressing. Neither Beethoven nor Wagner suffered such tortures. What would Wagner have done on a like occasion? He would have written the symphony without doubt–and he would have been right. But poor Berlioz, who was weak enough to sacrifice his duty to love, was, alas! also heroic enough to sacrifice his genius to duty.[24]
[Footnote 23: Mémoires, II, 349.]
[Footnote 24: Berlioz has already touchingly replied to any reproaches that might be made in the words that follow the story I have quoted. «‘Coward!’ some young enthusiast will say, ‘you ought to have written it; you should have been bold.’ Ah, young man, you who call me coward did not have to look upon what I did; had you done so you, too, would have had no choice. My wife was there, half dead, only able to moan; she had to have three nurses, and a doctor every day to visit her; and I was sure of the disastrous result of any musical adventure. No, I was not a coward; I know I was only human. I like to believe that I honoured art in proving that she had left me enough reason to distinguish between courage and cruelty» (Mémoires, II, 350).]
this was: Three Thousand Francs
go to next chapter: This Material Misery
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