Which power raises man the higher? Love or Music? It is a great question. It seems to me that one might say this: “Love cannot give an idea of music, but music can give an idea of love—why separate them?”
They are the twin wings of the soul.
Seeing the conception some people have of Love, and what they look for in Art, makes me liken them to swine rooting in a bed of lovely flowers and among mighty oaks, hoping to turn up with their snouts the truffles for which they are greedy.
I will think no more of Art.... Stella! Stella! I can die now without bitterness or anger.
1st January 1865.
[This is the end of Berlioz’ own Memoir. The rest of his life must be gathered from the few remaining letters to his intimate friends and from M. Bernard’s short account of his last days.]
XXXVII
THE AFTERGLOW
To Humbert Ferrand.
“Paris, 28th October 1864.—Dear Humbert,—On returning from my visit to Dauphiny I found your sad letter. You must have had difficulty in writing, yet your young friend, M. Bernard, tells me you are able to go out sometimes, leaning on a friendly arm.
“When first I went into the country my neuralgia was better, but very soon it came back worse than ever, from eight in the morning till four in the afternoon.