[Footnote 52: He used to say that nothing would remain of his work; that
he had deceived himself; and that he would have liked to burn his
scores.]

[Footnote 53: Blaze de Bury met him one autumn evening, on the quay,
just before his death, as he was returning from the Institute. "His face
was pale, his figure wasted and bent, and his expression dejected and
nervous; one might have taken him for a walking shadow. Even his eyes,
those large round hazel eyes, had extinguished their fire. For a second
he clasped my hand in his own thin, lifeless one, and repeated, in a
voice that was hardly more than a whisper, Aeschylus's words: 'Oh, this
life of man! When he is happy a shadow is enough to disturb him; and
when he is unhappy his trouble may be wiped away, as with a wet sponge,
and all is forgotten'" (_Musiciens d'hier et d'aujourd'hui_).]

Such was the unhappy and irresolute heart that found itself united to
one of the most daring geniuses in the world. It is a striking example
of the difference that may exist between genius and greatness--for the
two words are not synonymous. When one speaks of greatness, one speaks
of greatness of soul, nobility of character, firmness of will, and,
above all, balance of mind. I can understand how people deny the
existence of these qualities in Berlioz; but to deny his musical genius,
or to cavil about his wonderful power--and that is what they do daily in
Paris--is lamentable and ridiculous. Whether he attracts one or not, a
thimbleful of some of his work, a single part in one of his works, a
little bit of the _Fantastique_ or the overture of _Benvenuto_, reveal
more genius--I am not afraid to say it--than all the French music of his
century. I can understand people arguing about him in a country that
produced Beethoven and Bach; but with us in France, who can we set up