“Added to this is the nightmare of my musical life; I cannot find time to compose.
“I have begun a gigantic piece of work for seven hundred musicians, to the memory of the great men of France.
“It would soon be done if I had but one quiet month, but I dare not give up a single day to it, lest we should want for absolute necessaries.
“Which concert do you refer to? I have given seven this season and shall begin again in November.
“At present we sit dumb under the triumph of Musard,[12] who, puffed up by the success of his dancing-den concerts, looks upon himself as a superior Mozart. Mozart never composed anything like the ‘Pistol-shot Quadrille,’ consequently Mozart died of want.
“Musard is earning twenty thousand francs a year, and Ballanche, the immortal author of Orpheus and Antigone was nearly thrown into prison, because he owed two hundred francs.
“Think of it, Ferrand; does not madness lie that way? If I were a bachelor, so that my rash doings would recoil on myself alone, I know what I would do.
“Never mind that now, though. Love me always and, to please me, read de Vigny’s Chatterton.”
“December 1835.—Do not think me a sinner for leaving you so long in silence. You can have no idea of my work—but I need not emphasise that, for you know how much pleasure I have in writing to you and that I should not lightly forego it.
“I have seen Coste, who is publishing serially Great Men of Italy, and he is going to approach you about contributing some articles. Among those now out is a life of Benvenuto Cellini. Read it, if you are not already familiar with the autobiography of that bandit of genius.