Autobiography is open to the charge of egoism; somewhat unjustly since, in writing of oneself, the personal note must predominate and, in the case of a genius—sure of his goal and of his power to reach it—faith in himself amounts to what, in a smaller man, would be mere conceit.
This must be condoned and discounted for the sake of the priceless gift of insight into a personality of exceptional interest.
Berlioz’ Memoir, graphic as it is, cannot be called satisfactory as a character-study. He says plainly that he is not writing confessions, but is simply giving a correct account of his life to silence the many false versions current at the time. Therefore, while describing almost too minutely some of his difficulties and most of his conflicts—whereby he gives the impression of living in uncomfortably hot water—his very real heroism comes out only in his Letters, and then quite unconsciously.
The Memoir and Letters combined, however, make up an interesting and fascinating picture of the heights, depths, limitations and curious inconsistencies of this weird and restless human being.
The music-ridden, brutal, undisciplined creature of the Autobiography—more a blind, unreasoning force of Nature than an ordinary being, subject to the restrictions of common humanity—could not possibly be the man who was rich in the unswerving affection of such widely different characters as Heine, Liszt, Ernst, Alexandre, Heller, Hiller, Jules Janin, Dumas and Bertin; there must be something unchronicled to account for their loyalty and patience. This something is revealed in the Letters.
There stands the real Berlioz—musician and poet; eager to drain life to the dregs, be they sweet or bitter, to taste the fulness of being. There we find a faithful record of thoughts, feelings, aspirations, and a reflection of every passing mood. With one notable exception: even to Ferrand he never admitted that the poor reception of The Trojans (for it met with but a succès d’estime) broke his heart.
As a record of events the Autobiography is deficient, and after 1848 becomes a mere sketch. Thus, while writing pages of description of orchestral players and musical institutions in German and Austrian cities—quite suitable to his newspaper articles, but wearisome in their iteration, and throwing no light upon himself—he is almost entirely silent on his later trips to London. And the visits to Baden—brightest days of his later years—are dismissed in a footnote.
He lingers pathetically over young days, and hurries through the dreary time close at hand. So, for a record of the daily conflict with physical pain; of the overshadowed domestic life—none the easier to bear in that it was partly his own fault; of the grinding, ever-present shortness of money; of his wild and beautiful dreams; and of the large place that Ferrand, Morel, Massart, Damcke and Lwoff (many of whom are not named in the memoir) held in his heart—we turn to the Letters.
The fearless, unbroken affection for his Jonathan—Humbert Ferrand; the passionate love for his only son, mingled with impatience at Louis’ youthful instability; the whole-hearted ungrudging appreciation he extended to young and honest musicians—particularly to Camille Saint-Saëns—are a grateful contrast to the gloomy defiance, tornado-like fury, and eternal jeremiads over the hypocrisy and hollowness of Paris that mar the Memoir.
