“That is soon done,” said he, and he ruled a sheet whereon I wrote my song. A fortnight later I remembered it and shewed it to Mademoiselle Vernet, saying:
“I wish you would try this, for I have quite forgotten what it is like.”
I scribbled a piano accompaniment, and it took so well that, by the end of the month, M. Vernet, driven nearly mad by its reiteration, said:
“Look here, Berlioz. Next time you go up to the mountains don’t evolve any more songs; your Captive is making life in the Villa impossible. I can’t go a yard without hearing it sung or snored or growled. It is simply distracting! I am going to discharge one of the servants to-day, and I shall only engage another on condition that he does not sing the Captive.”
The only other thing I did was the Resurrexit that I sent as my obligatory work to Paris. The Powers said that I had made great progress. As it was simply a piece of the mass performed at St Roch several years before I got the prize, it does not say much for the judgment of the Immortals!
To Humbert Ferrand.
“January 1832.—Why did you not tell me of your marriage? Of course, I believe, since you say so, that you did not get my letters, but—even so—how could you keep silence?
“Your Noce des Fées is exquisite; so fresh, so full of dainty grace, but I cannot make music to it yet. Orchestration is not sufficiently advanced; I must first educate and dematerialise it, then perhaps I may think of treading in Weber’s footsteps. But here is my idea for an oratorio—the mere carcase, that you must vitalise:
“‘The World’s Last Day.’
“The height of civilisation, the depth of corruption, under a mighty tyrant, throughout the earth.