Perhaps, in spite of her dread of new ties, her affection for me may grow slowly and quietly. Already life seems more possible, since the past is not irretrievably over and done with. No longer is my heaven overcast. My sweet bright star smiles upon me from afar. She does not love me, truly, but why should she? She knows, however, that I love her. I must find consolation in the thought that she knew me too late, just as I comfort myself for not having known Virgil, Gluck, Beethoven or Shakespeare--who might, perhaps, have loved me too. (All the same, I am not comforted in the very least!) * * * * * 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. “Then, oh! my weariness and troubles of all sorts! “Nevertheless, there are compensations. Louis is doing well, though our long partings are hard to bear, for we love each other dearly. “As for the musical world, the corruption in Paris is beyond belief, and I retire more and more into my shell. “_Beatrice_ is to be performed in Stuttgart, and I may go to conduct it. I am also asked to go to St Petersburg in March, but shall not do so unless they offer me a sum tempting enough to make me brave that horrible climate. Then I shall do it for Louis’ sake, for of what use are a few thousand francs more to me? “I cannot imagine why some people have taken to flattering me so grossly. Their compliments are enough to scrape the paint off the walls, and I long to say to them: