His mouth was well cut, with lips compressed and puckered at the corners in a severe fold, and his chin was prominent.  He had a deep voice,[8] but his speech was halting and often tremulous with emotion; he would speak passionately of what interested him, and at times be effusive in manner, but more often he was ungracious and reserved.  He was of medium height, rather thin and angular in figure, and when seated he seemed much taller than he really was.[9] He was very restless, and inherited from his native land, Dauphine, the mountaineer’s passion for walking and climbing, and the love of a vagabond life, which remained with him nearly to his death.[10] He had an iron constitution, but he wrecked it by privation and excess, by his walks in the rain, and by sleeping out-of-doors in all weathers, even when there was snow on the ground.[11]

[Footnote 8:  “A passable baritone,” says Berlioz (Memoires, I, 58).  In 1830, in the streets of Paris, he sang “a bass part” (Memoires, I, 156).  During his first visit to Germany the Prince of Hechingen made him sing “the part of the violoncello” in one of his compositions (Memoires, II, 32).]

[Footnote 9:  There are two good portraits of Berlioz.  One is a photograph by Pierre Petit, taken in 1863, which he sent to Mme. Estelle Fornier.  It shows him leaning on his elbow, with his head bent, and his eyes fixed on the ground as if he were tired.  The other is the photograph which he had reproduced in the first edition of his Memoires, and which shows him leaning back, his hands in his pockets, his head upright, with an expression of energy in his face, and a fixed and stern look in his eyes.]

[Footnote 10:  He would go on foot from Naples to Rome in a straight line over the mountains, and would walk at one stretch from Subiaco to Tivoli.]

[Footnote 11:  This brought on several attacks of bronchitis and frequent sore throats, as well as the internal affection from which he died.]

But in this strong and athletic frame lived a feverish and sickly soul that was dominated and tormented by a morbid craving for love and sympathy:  “that imperative need of love which is killing me...."[12] To love, to be loved—­he would give up all for that.

[Footnote 12:  “Music and love are the two wings of the soul,” he wrote in his Memoires.]

But his love was that of a youth who lives in dreams; it was never the strong, clear-eyed passion of a man who has faced the realities of life, and who sees the defects as well as the charms of the woman he loves, Berlioz was in love with love, and lost himself among visions and sentimental shadows.  To the end of his life he remained “a poor little child worn out by a love that was beyond him."[13] But this man who lived so wild and adventurous a life expressed his passions with delicacy; and one finds an almost girlish purity in the immortal love passages of Les