she who did it; and then she boasted about it into the bargain. Why
didn't you turn her out of the house?' 'How could I?' said Berlioz in
broken tones, 'I love her'" _(Soixante ans de souvenirs_).]

And Berlioz did nothing--"How could I? I love her."

One would be hard upon such a man if one was not disarmed by his own
sufferings. But let us go on. I should have liked to pass over these
traits, but I have no right to; I must show you the extraordinary
feebleness of the man's character. "Man's character," did I say? No, it
was the character of a woman without a will, the victim of her
nerves.[21]

[Footnote 21: From this woman's nature came his love of revenge, "a
thing needless, and yet necessary," he said to his friend Hiller, who,
after having made him write the _Symphonie fantastique_ to spite
Henrietta Smithson, next made him write the wretched fantasia _Euphonia_
to spite Camille Moke, now Mme. Pleyel. One would feel obliged to draw
more attention to the way he often adorned or perverted the truth if one
did not feel it arose from his irrepressible and glowing imagination far
more than from any intention to mislead; for I believe his real nature
to have been a-very straightforward one. I will quote the story of his
friend Crispino, a young countryman from Tivoli, as a characteristic
example. Berlioz says in his _Mémoires_ (I, 229): "One day when Crispino
was lacking in respect I made-him a present of two shirts, a pair of
trousers, and three good kicks behind." In a note he added, "This is a
lie, and is the result of an artist's tendency to aim at effect. I never
kicked Crispino." But Berlioz took care afterwards to omit this note.
One attaches as little importance to his other small boasts as to this
one. The errors in the _Mémoires_ have been greatly exaggerated; and