without
resentment. Just then my son of six years knocked at the door [the
little Louis whose death, years after, was the last bitter drop in the
composer's cup of life]; owing to my ill-humor, I had unjustly scolded
him that morning. 'Papa,' he cried, 'wilt thou be friends?' 'I _will_ be
friends; come on, my boy'; and I ran to open the door. I took him on
my knee, and, with his blonde head on my breast, we slept together....
Fifteen years since then, and my torment still endures. Oh, to be always
there!--scores to write, orchestras to lead, rehearsals to direct. Let
me stand all day with _baton_ in hand, training a chorus, singing their
parts myself, and beating the measure until I spit blood, and cramp
seizes my arm; let me carry desks, double basses, harps, remove
platforms, nail planks like a porter or a carpenter, and then spend the
night in rectifying the errors of engravers or copyists. I have done,
do, and will do it. That belongs to my musical life, and I bear it
without thinking of it, as the hunter bears the thousand fatigues of the
chase. But to scribble eternally for a livelihood--!"

It may be fancied that such a man as Berlioz did not spare the lash,
once he griped the whip-handle, and, though no man was more generous
than he in recognizing and encouraging genuine merit, there was none
more relentless in scourging incompetency, pretentious commonplace, and
the blind conservatism which rests all its faith in what has been.
Our composer made more than one powerful enemy by this recklessness in
telling the truth, where a more politic man would have gained friends
strong to help in time of need. But Berlioz was too bitter and reckless,
as well as too proud, to debate consequences.

In 1838 Berlioz completed his "Benvenuto Cellini," his only attempt at
opera since "Les Francs Juges," and, wonderful to say, managed to get it
done at the opera, though the director, Duponchel, laughed at him as a
lunatic, and the whole company already regarded the work as damned in
advance. The result was a most disastrous and _eclatant_ failure, and
it would have crushed any man whose moral backbone was not forged of
thrice-tempered steel. With all these back-sets Hector Berlioz was not
without encouragement. The brilliant Franz Liszt, one of the musical
idols of the age, had bowed before him and called him master, the great
musical protagonist. Spontini, one of the most successful composers of
the time, held him in affectionat