“Same excuse again! Sir, I know that you cannot possibly compose wandering about the beach with only a pencil and paper, and no piano, so tell me where you wish to go, and your passport shall be made out. You cannot remain here.”
“Then I will go back to Rome, and, by your leave, continue to compose without a piano.”
Next day I left Nice, greatly against the grain, but I was brisk and light-hearted, well and thoroughly cured. Thus once more loaded pistols missed fire.
Never mind. My little drama was interesting, and I cannot help regretting it—just a little!
To H. Ferrand.
“11th May 1831.—Well, Ferrand, I am getting on. Rage, threats of vengeance, grinding of teeth, tortures of hell—all over and done with!
“If your silence means laziness on your part, it is too bad of you. When one comes back to life, as I have done, one feels the need of a friendly arm, of an outstretched hand.
“Yes, Camille has married Pleyel, and I am glad of it. I see now the perils that I have escaped.
“What meanness! what shabbiness! what apathy! what infinite—almost sublime—villainy, if sublime can agree with ignobility (I have stolen that newly coined word from you).
“P.S.—I have just finished a new overture—to King Lear.”