“What! you ought to have had it a week ago. It must be an official oversight; I will look into it.”
But nothing happened, and I finally spoke to the Minister’s son, who told me that there was an intrigue on foot to put off my commission until his father’s retirement, after which the Director of Fine Arts—who had no love for me, but whom I need not name since he is dead—hoped that it would be shelved.
This Monsieur X. was a Rossinist. One day I heard him giving his opinion of composers, ancient and modern, and rejecting them all, except Beethoven, whom he forgot. Suddenly he bethought him and said:
“Let’s see. I believe there is another—a German—what is his name? They play his symphonies at the Conservatoire. You may know him, Monsieur Berlioz?”
“Beethoven.”
“Ah yes, Beethoven. I believe he has a certain amount of talent.”
I heard that myself. Beethoven not devoid of talent!
M. de Gasparin had no intention of being ignored; therefore, finding that nothing had been done, he sent for M. X. and ordered him sternly to make out my appointment at once.
Naturally this snub did not increase M. X.’s friendly feeling towards me but, armed with my decree, I set to work with the greatest ardour.
I had so long ached to try my hand at a Requiem that I flung myself into it body and soul. My head seemed bursting with the ferment of ideas, and I actually had to invent a sort of musical short-hand to get on fast enough.