besides, Berlioz is the first to warn his readers that he only wrote
what pleased him, and in his preface says that he is not writing his
Confessions. Can one blame him for that?]

* * * * *

Such people are destined to unhappiness; and if they make other people
suffer, one may be sure that it is only half of what they suffer
themselves. They have a peculiar gift for attracting and gathering up
trouble; they savour sorrow like wine, and do not lose a drop of it.
Life seemed desirous that Berlioz should be steeped in suffering; and
his misfortunes were so real that it would be unnecessary to add to them
any exaggerations that history has handed down to us.

People find fault with Berlioz's continual complaints; and I, too, find
in them a lack of virility and almost a lack of dignity. To all
appearances, he had far fewer material reasons for unhappiness than--I
won't say Beethoven--Wagner and other great men, past, present, and
future. When thirty-five years old he had achieved glory; and Paganini
proclaimed him Beethoven's successor. What more could he want? He was
discussed by the public, disparaged by a Scudo and an Adolphus Adam, and
the theatre only opened its doors to him with difficulty. It was really
splendid!

But a careful examination of facts, such as that made by M. Julien
Tiersot, shows the stifling mediocrity and hardship of his life. There
were, first of all, his material cares. When thirty-six years old
"Beethoven's successor" had a fixed salary of fifteen hundred francs as
assistant keeper of the Conservatoire Library, and not quite as much for
his contributions to the _Debits_-contributions which exasperated and