To Humbert Ferrand.
“Montmartre, 30th August 1834.—You are not forgotten—not the least little bit, but you cannot know what a slave I am to hard necessity. Had it not been for those confounded newspaper articles I should have written to you a dozen times.
“I will not write the usual empty phrases on your loss yet, if anything could soften the blow, it would be that your father’s death was as peaceful as one could wish. You speak of my father. He wrote kindly and quickly in answer to my letter announcing the birth of my boy. Henriette thanks you for your messages; she, too, understands the depth of our friendship. I could write all night but, as I have to tug at my galley-oar all day, I must go to sleep.”
“30th November 1834.—I quite expected a letter from you to-day, and although I am dropping with fatigue, I must snatch half an hour to answer it. The Symphonie Fantastique is out, and, as our poor Liszt has dropped a terrible lot of money over it, we arranged with Schlesinger that not one copy was to be given away. They are twenty francs. Shall I buy one for you?
“Would to heaven I could send it you without all this preface, but you know we are still very straitened. My wife and I are as happy as it is possible to be, in spite of our worldly troubles, and little Louis is the dearest and sweetest of children.”
“10th January 1835.—If I had had time I should already have begun another work I am thinking of, but I am obliged to scribble these wretched, ill-paid articles. Ah! if only art counted for something with the Government perhaps I should not be reduced to this. Never mind, I must find time somehow.”
“April 1835.—I wrote, about a month ago, an introduction to you for a young violinist named Allard, who is on his way to Geneva.
“So you have been in Milan! Not a town I like, but it is the threshold of Italy. I cannot tell you how much, when the weather is fine, I long for my ancient Campagna and the wild hills that I loved.
“You ask for news of us.
“Louis can nearly walk alone and Henriette is more devoted to him than ever. I work like a nigger for the four papers whence I get my daily bread. They are the Rénovateur, which pays badly; the Monde Dramatique and Gazette Musicale which pay only fairly; the Débats, which pays well.