I felt much stimulated, however, on the two or three occasions when Sainton invited me to dine with Berlioz.  I was now brought face to face with this strangely gifted person, tormented and even blunted in some respects as he then was.  When I saw him, a man considerably my senior, coming here merely in the hope of earning a few guineas, I could deem myself perfectly happy, and almost floating on air, by contrast; for my own coming had been brought about rather by a desire for distraction, a craving for outward inspiration.  His whole being expressed weariness and despair, and I was suddenly seized with deep sympathy for this man whose talent so far surpassed that of his rivals—­for this was clear as daylight to me.  Berlioz seemed to be pleasantly affected by the attitude of gay spontaneity I adopted with him.  His usual short, almost reserved, manner thawed visibly during the friendly hours we passed together.  He told me many comical things about Meyerbeer, and the impossibility of escaping from his flattery, which was dictated by his insatiable thirst for laudatory articles.  The first performance of his Prophet had been preceded by the customary diner de la veille, and when Berlioz excused himself for staying away, Meyerbeer first reproached him tenderly, then challenged him to make good the great injustice he had done him, by writing ‘a real nice article’ about his opera.  Berlioz declared it was impossible to get anything detrimental to Meyerbeer inserted in a Paris paper.

I found it less easy to discuss with him matters of a more profound artistic nature, as I invariably came up against the real Frenchman then, who, fluent and glib of tongue, was so sure of himself that it never occurred to him to doubt whether he had understood his companions aright.  Once, in a pleasant glow of inspiration (having suddenly mastered the French language, to my own great surprise), I tried to express to him my idea of the ‘artistic conception.’  I endeavoured to describe the powerful effect of vital impressions on the temperament, how they hold us captive, as it were, until we rid ourselves of them by the unique development of our inmost spiritual visions, which are not called forth by these impressions, but only roused by them from their deep slumber.  The artistic structure, therefore, appears to us as in no wise a result of, but, on the contrary, a liberation from, the vital impressions.  At this point Berlioz smiled in a patronising, comprehensive way, and said:  ’Nous appelons cela:  digerer.’  My amazement at this prompt summing-up of my laboured communications was further justified by my new friend’s outward behaviour.  I invited him to be present at my last concert, and also at a small farewell feast which I was giving at home to my few friends after it.  He soon left the table, saying that he felt unwell, but the friends who were left made no secret to me of their belief that Berlioz had been put out of humour by the exceedingly enthusiastic farewell with which the audience had parted from me.