Lovers of classical music and particularly Hector Berlioz know the story of his relationship with the British actress Harriet Smithson. The most common version goes something like this: When Berlioz was a young man, an unknown composer struggling in Paris, he went to the theater one night. It was for a production of Shakespeare’s Hamlet at the Odeon. When Smithson took the stage in the role of Ophelia, he was overcome. He couldn’t breathe; he was electrified by her presence. He vowed that evening that he’d marry her. The problem was, she was a famous actress, the toast of Paris, and he was a nobody.
He tried to meet her, but she was afraid of his rapturous transports. He rented a room across from where she lived and tried various ruses to get her attention. He finally met her and threatened suicide if she didn’t marry him. He then tried to overdose on opium. By now, Harriet’s heart began to soften.
Finally, he did the master stroke. He wrote the “Symphonie Fantastique,” which in its five movements tells the musical story of a poet who, rejected by the woman he loves, takes opium to kill himself. But instead of finding longed-for-death, the drug provokes a series of visions leading up to the famous Dies Irae movement in which he uses a musical sequence from the “Gregorian Requiem’ to depict a Witches Sabbath. This is the same melody used as the main theme of Kubrick’s The Shining. The music he composed with its constant invention, and completely new type of orchestral instrumentation and color, was revolutionary.
He then rented a concert hall and had the piece played, making sure Harriet would be there. Berlioz’s friends had spread the word so that the entire audience knew who the subject of the piece was. When Harriet walked in and took her box she wondered why everyone in the theater turned and looked at her.
Finally they were married. And that’s where the traditional telling of the story comes to an end. But the story continues down some rather strange paths. By the time they were married, the fickle Parisian public had forgotten about Harriet. She took supporting roles. Then, just after their marriage Harriet tripped and broke her leg, and was bed-ridden for months. She put on weight. Finally, her theatrical career came to an end, and she became demanding and increasingly jealous. Berlioz, whose career was beginning to take an upward turn, became involved with a singer of unequal talents, Marie Recio, and snuck off to do a tour of his music.
Berlioz still loved and financially supported Harriet, but their romantic relationship was over. Marie interfered in Berlioz’s life, poisoning his relationship with other composers, notably Richard Wagner. She insisted on singing in his concerts even though the results were often mediocre. She was also a sadist. Here’s a scene related by Berlioz to a friend.
“A few days ago, my wife heard a ring at her bell. Opening the door, she found in front of her a young, pretty, elegant woman, who said to her with a smile, ‘I want to see Madame Berlioz?’ ‘I am she, madame” replied my wife. ‘You are wrong’ said the other. ‘I want to see Madame Berlioz.’ ‘I am she, madame.’ ‘No, I don’t mean you. You are talking about the old Madame Berlioz, the discarded one. I mean the young one, the pretty one, the one he prefers. Well, that one is myself.’ And she walked away, banging the door on the poor creature, leaving her half fainting in misery.”
When asked why he put up with her, Berlioz said “I love her.”
Finally, Harriet died and was buried in the original Montmartre cemetery, at that time far outside of the city. Then years later came the news that the cemetery was being relocated and Berlioz paid to have Harriet’s remains moved to a new grave. He gives, in his Memoirs, a vivid depiction of the scene.
“The grave had already been opened and on my arrival, the grave digger jumped in. The coffin was still entire, though it had been ten years underground; the lid alone was injured by the damp. The man, instead of lifting it out, tore away the rotten lid, which cracked with a hideous noise, and brought the contents of the coffin to light. He then bent down, took up the head which was already parted from the trunk—the bald uncrowned, decayed head of poor Ophelia—and laid it in a new coffin awaiting it at the edge of the grave. Then bending down a second time, he lifted with difficulty the headless trunk and limbs—a blackish mass to which the shroud still adhered, resembling a heap of pitch in a damp sack. I remember the dull sound…and the odor…”
A few years later Marie Recio died. Now they lay buried together in the new Montmartre cemetery in a tomb paid for by a group of his admirers. Perhaps spending eternity together will allow them to work through their personal issues.