'“No doubt I deserve to go to Hell”, said Berlioz once
to a friend who had reproached him for his treatment of
Henrietta Smithson, his first wife; “but what would you
have? I am in Hell already!”
It was not an exaggeration or a figure of speech.
Berlioz was in hell the greater part of his life. Of all
the great composers he was perhaps the most consistently
wretched. Misery and frustration pursued him from his
youth to his grave. Time and again his existence seemed
like the fulfillment of a curse. Actually, his mother had
called one down upon him at the very beginning of his
career and for the rest of his days it appeared to work
itself out implacably. One might even believe the malediction
had retained its power beyond the tomb. For the
posthumous glory of Berlioz is by no means unchallenged.
Almost alone among the masters he does not command
anything like universal admiration, let alone affection.
He has his redoubtable champions and they include
many of the greatest musicians, living and dead. But
where Bach, Mozart, Beethoven, Chopin, Schubert,
Brahms, Wagner need no defense Berlioz incontestably
does. Rightly or wrongly he continues to be a problem,
with all that this condition implies. Yet without him
music could not conceivably be just what it is. And perhaps
the strangest aspect of the paradox is that only a
limited portion of his output enjoys anything like what
might be called frequent hearing. The greater part of
his greatest works remains to all intents, undiscovered—nay,
unsuspected—by the multitude.'
PEYSER, Herbert F. Hector Berlioz: A Romantic Tragedy. The Philharmonic-Symphony Society of New York, 1949.
