The audience cried “encore,” and the second time was even better than the first. I met Habeneck as we went out, and threw four words at him over my shoulder.
“That’s how it goes.” He did not reply.
I never felt so happy conducting as I did that day; the thought of the torments Habeneck had made me suffer increased my pleasure.
But to return to Benvenuto.
Gradually the larger part of the orchestra came over to my side, and several declared that this was the most original score they had ever played. Duponchel heard them and said:
“Was ever such a right-about face? Now they think Berlioz’ music charming, and the idiots are praising it up to the skies.”
Still some malcontents remained, and two were found one night playing J’ai du bon tabac instead of their parts.
It was just the same on the stage. The dancers pinched their partners, who, by their shrieks, upset the chorus. When, in despair, I sent for Duponchel he was never to be found; attending rehearsal was beneath his dignity.
The opera came on at last. The overture made a furore, the rest was unmercifully hissed. However it was played three times.
It is fourteen years (I write in 1850) since I was thus pilloried at the opera, and I have just read over my poor score, carefully and impartially. I cannot help thinking that it shows an originality, a raciness and a brilliancy that I shall, probably, never have again and which deserve a better fate.[15]