BERLIOZ AND PAGANINI

Berlioz wasn’t unusual among composers in one respect: money was always tight. Keeping himself afloat was a constant struggle, and he often had to rely on his writing to pay the bills.

But his genius—and his need—didn’t go unnoticed.

He once gave a concert in which he conducted his “Childe Harold” Symphony, and it was a major success. Afterward, while he sat resting, a tall, dark man—thin as a skeleton—approached him. In full view of the orchestra, the man dropped to one knee and kissed Berlioz’s hand.

It was Paganini.

The next morning Paganini’s son came with a letter. He delivered one instruction: “Papa wants you not to read this until you’re alone.” Then the child disappeared.

When Berlioz opened it, he found Paganini saying that since Beethoven was dead, Berlioz alone could “revive” him. As a sign of homage to Berlioz’s greatness, Paganini asked him to accept what was enclosed.

The enclosure was an order on the firm of Rothschild for 20,000 francs.

Berlioz was overwhelmed—this was a princely gift. He wrote four thank-you letters and tore them up before managing one that felt adequate. The money—about eight hundred pounds in the telling—helped him tremendously.

And Berlioz never discovered that the funds hadn’t actually come from Paganini’s own pocketbook.

Berlioz got the money. Paganini got the glory of giving it.