But the genius of Paganini was fully understood and appreciated by a far greater Frenchman than Charles Lafont:—Hector Berlioz.
The friendship between Paganini and Berlioz has been briefly referred to, but it is a subject for further consideration, as it reveals the influence that the one artist wielded over the other. The first meeting of the two men must be told in the words of Berlioz himself. A few remarks are needed by way of preface. In the summer of 1833, Berlioz married the English actress Miss Smithson, who, still weak from her carriage accident, had, on her wedding day, "nothing in the world but debts, and the fear of never again being able to appear to advantage on the stage." To pay off these debts Berlioz organized a benefit entertainment, beginning with drama and ending with a concert. But his programme was too long, and he had forgotten something—the claque. His poor wife could not conceal her lameness, and though talented as ever, she failed to obtain a recall. Another actress, having taken precautions, had an ovation. Then at midnight the band of the Théâtre Italien, not being obliged to play after that hour, left the place, and the Symphonie Fantastique could not be played. Liszt assisted, and the affair was not quite a failure, financially, though the promoter came in for bitter attacks. Poor Berlioz was in despair, but he took his courage in both hands, and announced a concert at the Conservatoire. He took care to engage artists he could trust, and with his friend Girard as conductor everything went well, the Symphonie Fantastique taking the room by storm. Now let Berlioz speak: "My success was complete, and the former judgment on me was reversed. My musicians looked radiant with delight as they left the orchestra. Lastly, my happiness was completed when the public had all gone, and a man stopped me in the passage—a man with long hair, piercing eyes, a strange and haggard face—a genius, a Titan among the giants, whom I had never seen before, and at first sight of whom I was deeply moved; this man pressed my hand, and overwhelmed me with burning eulogies, which literally set both my heart and brain on fire. It was Paganini (22nd December, 1833). From that date my relations with that great artist, who exercised such a happy influence upon my destiny, and whose noble generosity has given birth to such absurd and malicious comments."
It was some time in January, 1834, that Paganini called upon Berlioz and said he had a wonderful viola, a Stradivari, upon which he should much like to play in public, but he had no music for it. Would Berlioz write a solo for him? Berlioz was flattered by the proposal, but replied that in order to produce a composition sufficiently brilliant to suit such a virtuoso, he—Berlioz—ought to be able to play the viola, and that he could not do. So he thought Paganini alone could meet his own wishes. Paganini, however, pressed his own point, adding that he himself was too unwell to compose anything. Berlioz then set to work. To quote his own words: "In order to please the illustrious virtuoso, I then endeavoured to write a solo for the viola, but so combined with the orchestra as not to diminish the importance of the latter, feeling sure that Paganini's incomparable execution would enable him to give the solo instrument all its due prominence. The proposition was a new one. A happy idea soon occurred to me, and I became intensely eager to carry it out."
Paganini was impatient to see the music, and as soon as the first movement was finished, it was shown to him. He did not like the long silences. "That is not at all what I want," he said; "I must be playing the whole time." "You really want a concerto for the tenor," Berlioz replied, "and you are the only man who can write it." Paganini said no more, and soon afterwards left for Nice. Berlioz then gave free play to his fancy, and wrote the series of scenes for the orchestra, the background formed from the recollections of his wanderings in the Abruzzi, the viola introduced as a sort of melancholy dreamer, in the style of Byron's "Childe Harold." Hence the title "Harold in Italy." Now, this is the point: "Harold" was inspired by Paganini, who indirectly gave a new art-form to the world. The piece was produced on November 23rd, 1834, but Paganini was then in Italy, and he did not hear it until four years later.
But Paganini was destined to inspire something greater still. He was again in Paris in 1838, and, as before related, was present at the "horrible performance" of Berlioz' "Benvenuto Cellini." Sad at heart Paganini said: "If I were manager of the Opéra, I would at once engage that young man[38] to write me three such operas: I would pay him in advance, and should make a capital bargain by it." The failure of the opera threw Berlioz on a bed of sickness. But he had to live, and was soon arranging to give concerts at the Conservatoire. The first barely paid expenses, but the second, at which both the Symphonie Fantastique and Harold en Italie were performed, was more successful, and at this Paganini was present. This has also been incidentally mentioned, but further notice is required on account of the sequel. Again we must allow Berlioz to speak for himself. "The concert was just over; I was in a profuse perspiration, and trembling with exhaustion, when Paganini, followed by his son Achilles, came up to me at the orchestra door, gesticulating violently. Owing to the throat affection of which he ultimately died, he had already completely lost his voice, and unless everything was perfectly quiet, no one but his son could hear or even guess what he was saying. He made a sign to the child, who got up on a chair, put his ear close to his father's mouth and listened attentively. Achilles then got down, and turning to me, said, 'My father desires me to assure you, sir, that he has never in his life been so powerfully impressed at a concert; that your music has quite upset him, and that if he did not restrain himself he should go down on his knees to thank you for it.' I made a movement of incredulous embarrassment at these strange words, but Paganini seizing my arm, and rattling out 'Yes, yes!' with the little voice he had left, dragged me up on the stage, where there were still a good many of the performers, knelt down, and kissed my hand. I need not describe my stupefaction; I relate the facts, that is all."
In his frenzied state Berlioz went out into the bitter cold, met Armand Bertin on the boulevard, told him what had occurred, caught a chill, and again had to keep his bed. Two days later, the little Achilles called, the bearer of a letter, and of a message to the effect that his father would himself have paid the visit, but was too ill to do so. The letter ran as follows:—
"My Dear Friend,
Beethoven dead, only Berlioz now can revive him; and I, who have enjoyed your divine compositions, worthy of the genius which you are, entreat you to accept, in token of my homage, twenty thousand francs, which will be remitted you by the Baron de Rothschild on presentation of the enclosed. Believe me always your most affectionate friend,
Nicolo Paganini.
Paris, December 18th, 1838."
Picture the scene! Berlioz, pale with excitement; his wife, entering the room, imagines some new misfortune has befallen them. Told of what has happened, she calls her son Louis. Berlioz' words again: "And my wife and child ran back together, and fell on their knees beside my bed, the mother praying, the child in astonishment joining his little hands beside her. O Paganini! what a sight! Would that he could have seen it!"
The news soon spread abroad, and there were mixed feelings with regard to Berlioz; delight on the one hand, detractions on the other, and "scandalous insinuations" against Paganini. It was some six days before Berlioz recovered sufficiently to visit and thank Paganini. The latter would not hear a word; it was the greatest pleasure he had ever felt in his life, he said; adding, "Ah! now none of the people who cabal against you will dare to say another word, for they know that I am a good judge, and that I am not easy" the last clause bearing two meanings: "I am not in easy circumstances," or, "I do not part with money easily." I know that this gift of Paganini to Berlioz is now regarded as a myth. One version of the story is that Paganini was merely the agent, the real donor being Armand Bertin, the great friend of Berlioz, who wished to remain in the background. Another version is to the effect that Jules Janin, editor of the Journal des Débats, compelled Paganini to make the gift to Berlioz, who was the musical critic on that paper; and that Paganini, fearing to lose his prestige with the public if Berlioz turned against him, yielded to the pressure put upon him. I am going to give chapter and verse for all this, for it is a matter that should be put at rest. But first, what a condition is revealed of the press in relation to art. Berlioz in money matters was incorruptable, though he was often poor enough; therefore I leave him out of the discussion. But think of the possibility of the transaction! Janin, years before, had written bitter things of Paganini—things I have declined to quote in this memoir; but Janin must have been quite as bad as he asserted Paganini to have been, if he was capable of this monstrous proposition. There are two details to be considered, and the first is the date. In 1838, the public career of Paganini was at an end. There was the wretched Casino business, it is true, but there was no performance by Paganini. In the second place, supposing for a moment that Berlioz could or would employ his pen in disparagement of the great violinist, could he have written anything more violent, more depreciatory, than critics had been writing for the previous twenty years, criticisms which Paganini had survived, and grown rich upon? Besides, if the Janin story be true, the Bertin must be false. Where then is the authority for the former? In 1840, Liszt wrote a memorial notice of Paganini. In it passing reference is made to some deeds of benevolence. Lina Ramann, in her "Life of Liszt," of which the first part was published in 1880, prints this essay, and at the point above mentioned adds a long foot note[39] giving the Janin story, which she averred Liszt knew through Janin himself. That was a safe story to reproduce, though it might have been contradicted by Liszt if he ever saw the book. Now for the Bertin version. The authority quoted for that is always Ferdinand Hiller. In 1868, Hiller published his work "On the Musical Life of our Time," in which he relates some gossiping with Rossini, in 1856. The conversation turned upon Paganini on one occasion, and Hiller asked about the kingly gift to Berlioz. Rossini replied that all Paris knew it, and he must needs believe it, but at bottom he held the thing impossible. Nothing more definite is there recorded. In 1871, Hiller published a new series of similar papers or essays, but of this work I know nothing. Rossini was a raconteur, and fond of saying good things. There is no reason to doubt the good faith of Ferdinand Hiller; he set down what Rossini said, which, after all, was only the expression of a doubt. This reticence was perhaps owing to the fact that Berlioz was still living. But how was Rossini likely to know the facts of the case? He went to Italy in 1836, and returned to Paris about the end of May, 1855; consequently he knew nothing of the alleged gift at the time, and as Armand Bertin died in 1854, Rossini could not have heard the story from him. So far, one would be justified in attaching little credence to Hiller's gossip with Rossini.