* * * * *

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 humiliated him, and were one of the crosses of his life, as they obliged him to speak anything but the truth.[22]

[Footnote 22:  Memoires, II, 158.  The heartaches expressed in this chapter will be felt by every artist.]

That made a total of three thousand francs, hardly gained on which he had to keep a wife and child—­“meme deux,” as M. Tiersot says.  He attempted a festival at the Opera; the result was three hundred and sixty francs loss.  He organised a festival at the 1844 Exhibition; the receipts were thirty-two thousand francs, out of which he got eight hundred francs.  He had the Damnation de Faust performed; no one came to it, and he was ruined.  Things went better in Russia; but the manager who brought him to England became bankrupt.  He was haunted by thoughts of rents and doctors’ bills.  Towards the end of his life his financial affairs mended a little, and a year before his death he uttered these sad words:  “I suffer a great deal, but I do not want to die now—­I have enough to live upon.”

One of the most tragic episodes of his life is that of the symphony which he did not write because of his poverty.  One wonders why the page that finishes his Memoires is not better known, for it touches the depths of human suffering.

At the time when his wife’s health was causing him most anxiety, there came to him one night an inspiration for a symphony.  The first part of it—­an allegro in two-four time in A minor—­was ringing in his head.  He got up and began to write, and then he thought,