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. It was worse when we came to the orchestra. The executants, seeing Habeneck’s surly manner, were cold and reserved with me. Still they did their duty, which he did not. He never could manage the quick tempo of the saltarello; the dancers, unable to dance to his dragging measure, complained to me. I cried:
“Faster! Faster! Wake up!”
Habeneck, in a rage, hit his desk and broke his bow.
After several exhibitions of temper of this sort I said, calmly:
“My good sir, breaking fifty bows will not prevent your time being twice as slow as it ought to be. This is a saltarello.”
He turned to the orchestra.
“Since it is impossible to please M. Berlioz,” said he, “we will stop for to-day. You may go.”
If only I could have conducted myself! But in France authors are not allowed to direct their own works in theatres.
Years later I conducted my Carnaval Romain, where that very saltarello comes in, without the wind instruments having any rehearsal at all; and Habeneck, certain that I should come to grief, was present. I rushed the allegro at the proper time and everything went perfectly.