tree without leaves, streaming with rain." At the end of 1861, the
disease was in an acute stage. He had attacks of pain sometimes lasting
thirty hours, during which he would writhe in agony in his bed. "I live
in the midst of my physical pain, overwhelmed with weariness. Death is
very slow."[36]

[Footnote 33: _Mémoires_, II, 420.]

[Footnote 34: "I do not know how Berlioz has managed to be cut off like
this. He has neither friends nor followers; neither the warm sun of
popularity nor the pleasant shade of friendship" (Liszt to the Princess
of Wittgenstein, 16 May, 1861).]

[Footnote 35: In a letter to Bennet he says, "I am weary, I am
weary...." How often does this piteous cry sound in his letters towards
the end of his life. "I feel I am going to die.... I am weary unto
death" (21 August, 1868--six months before his death).]

[Footnote 36: Letter to Asger Hammerick, 1865.]

Worst of all, in the heart of his misery, there was nothing that
comforted him. He believed in nothing--neither in God nor immortality.

"I have no faith.... I hate all philosophy and everything that
resembles it, whether religious or otherwise.... I am as incapable
of making a medicine of faith as of having faith in medicine."[37]

"God is stupid and cruel in his complete indifference."[38]

He did not believe in beauty or honour, in mankind or himself.