lyric theatre that had been composed since the death of Gluck.[31] But there is no need to be astonished.  To hear these works to-day one must go to Germany.  And although the dramatic work of Berlioz has found its Bayreuth—­thanks to Mottl, to Karlsruhe and Munich—­and the marvellous Benvenuto Cellini has been played in twenty German towns,[32] and regarded as a masterpiece by Weingartner and Richard Strauss, what manager of a French theatre would think of producing such works?

But this is not all.  What was the bitterness of failure compared with the great anguish of death?  Berlioz saw all those he loved die one after the other:  his father, his mother, Henrietta Smithson, Marie Recio.  Then only his son Louis remained.

[Footnote 31:  I shall content myself here with noting a fact, which I shall deal with more fully in another essay at the end of this book:  it is the decline of musical taste in France—­and, I rather think, in all Europe—­since 1835 or 1840.  Berlioz says in his Memoires:  “Since the first performance of Romeo et Juliette the indifference of the French public for all that concerns art and literature has grown incredibly” (Memoires, II, 263).  Compare the shouts of excitement and the tears that were drawn from the dilettanti of 1830 (Memoires, I, 81), at the performances of Italian operas or Gluck’s works, with the coldness of the public between 1840 and 1870.  A mantle of ice covered art then.  How much Berlioz must have suffered.  In Germany the great romantic age was dead.  Only Wagner remained to give life to music; and he drained all that was left in Europe of love and enthusiasm for music.  Berlioz died truly of asphyxia.]

[Footnote 32:  Here is an official list of the towns where Benvenuto has been played since 1879 (I am indebted for this information to M. Victor Chapot, Berlioz’s grandnephew).  They are, in alphabetical order:  Berlin, Bremen, Brunswick, Dresden, Frankfort-On-Main, Freiburg-im-Breisgau, Hamburg, Hanover, Karlsruhe, Leipzig, Mannheim, Metz, Munich, Prague, Schwerin, Stettin, Strasburg, Stuttgart, Vienna, and Weimar.]

He was the captain of a merchant vessel; a clever, good-hearted boy, but restless and nervous, irresolute and unhappy, like his father.  “He has the misfortune to resemble me in everything,” said Berlioz; “and we love each other like a couple of twins."[33] “Ah, my poor Louis,” he wrote to him, “what should I do without you?” A few months afterwards he learnt that Louis had died in far-away seas.

He was now alone.[34] There were no more friendly voices; all that he heard was a hideous duet between loneliness and weariness, sung in his ear during the bustle of the day and in the silence of the night.[35] He was wasted with disease.  In 1856, at Weimar, following great fatigue, he was seized with an internal malady.  It began with great mental distress; he used to sleep in the streets.  He suffered constantly; he was like “a tree without leaves, streaming with rain.”  At the end of 1861, the disease was in an acute stage.  He had attacks of pain sometimes lasting thirty hours, during which he would writhe in agony in his bed.  “I live in the midst of my physical pain, overwhelmed with weariness.  Death is very slow."[36]