rmany loves you; you are of her own being, a glorious
day of her life, a warm drop of her blood, a part of her heart...." One
might adapt his words to Berlioz; it is as difficult for a German really
to love Berlioz as it is for a Frenchman to love Wagner or Weber. One
must, therefore, be careful about accepting unreservedly the judgment of
Germany on Berlioz; for in that would lie the danger of a new
misunderstanding. You see how both the followers and opponents of
Berlioz hinder us from getting at the truth. Let us dismiss them.

Have we now come to the end of our difficulties? Not yet; for Berlioz is
the most illusive of men, and no one has helped more than he to mislead
people in their estimate of him. We know how much he has written about
music and about his own life, and what wit and understanding he shows in
his shrewd criticisms and charming _Memoires_.[3]

[Footnote 3: The literary work of Berlioz is rather uneven. Beside
passages of exquisite beauty we find others that are ridiculous in their
exaggerated sentiment, and there are some that even lack good taste. But
he had a natural gift of style, and his writing is vigorous, and full of
feeling, especially towards the latter half of his life. The _Procession
des Rogations_ is often quoted from the _Memoires_; and some of his
poetical text, particularly that in _L'Enfance du Christ_ and in _Les
Troyens_, is written in beautiful language and with a fine sense of
rhythm. His _Memoires_ as a whole is one of the most delightful books
ever written by an artist. Wagner was a greater poet, but as a prose
writer Berlioz is infinitely superior. See Paul Morillot's essay on
_Berlioz ecrivain_, 1903, Grenoble.] One would think that such an
imaginative and skilful writer, accustomed in his profession of critic
to express every shade of feeling, would be able to tell us more exactly
his ideas of art than a Beethoven or a Mozart. But it is not so. As too
much light may blind the vision, so too much intellect may hinder the
understanding. Berlioz's mind spent itself in details; it reflected
light from too many facets, and did not focus itself in one strong beam
which would have made known his power. He did not know how to dominate
either his life or his work; he did not even try to dominate them. He
was the incarnation of romantic genius, an unrestrained force,
unconscious of the road he trod. I would not go so far as to say that he
did not understand himself, but there are cer