“I wish the theatre people would somehow plot to get her there—that wretched woman! But she certainly would not go if she read my programme. She could not but recognise herself. What will people say? My story is so well known.”
At this time a new influence came into my life which, for a time, eclipsed my Shakespearian passion.
Hiller, the German composer-pianist, whom I had known intimately ever since his arrival in Paris, fell violently in love with Marie Moke, a beautiful and talented girl, who, later on, became one of our greatest pianists.
Her interest in me was aroused by Hiller’s account of my mental sufferings, and—so Fate willed—we were thrown much together at a boarding-school where we both gave lessons—she on the piano and I on—the guitar! Odd though it be, I still figure in the prospectus of Madame d’Aubré as professor of that noble instrument.
Meeting Mademoiselle Moke constantly, her dainty beauty and bewitching mockery of my high-tragedy airs and dismal visage soon turned my thoughts from my absorbing passion and won her a shrine in my heart. She was but eighteen!
Hiller, poor fellow, behaved admirably. He recognised that it was Fate, not treachery on my part and, heart-broken as he was, he wished me every happiness and left for Frankfort.
This is all I need say of this violent interlude that, by stirring my senses, turned me aside for a while from the mighty love that really held my heart. In my Italian journey I will tell of the dramatic sequel. Mademoiselle Moke nearly proved the proverb that it is not well to play with fire!
In 1830 the Competition took place later than usual—on the 15th July. For the fifth time I went up, firmly resolved, if I should fail, to go no more.
As I finished my cantata the Revolution broke out and the Institute was a curious sight. Grape shot rattled on the barred doors, cannon balls shook the façade, women screamed and, in the momentary pauses, the interrupted swallows took up their sweet, shrill cry. I hurried over the last pages of my cantata, and on the 29th was free to maraud about the streets, pistol in hand, with the “blessed riffraff” as Barbier said.
I shall never forget the look of Paris during those few days. The frantic bravery of the gutter-snipe, the enthusiasm of the men, the calm, sad resignation of the Swiss and Royal Guards, the odd pride of the mob in being “masters of Paris and looting nothing.” One day, just after this harmonious revolution, I had a strange musical shock.