“London, November 1847.—Dear Rogé,—Your letter should have been answered sooner had it not been for the thousand and one worries that overwhelmed me the minute I set foot in Paris.
“You can have no idea of my existence in that infernal city that thinks itself the home of Art.
“Thank heaven I have escaped to England and am, financially, more independent than I dared to hope.
“Jullien, the manager here, is a most intrepid spirit and seems to understand English people; he has made his fortune and is going to make mine, he says. I let him have his own way since he does nothing unworthy of art and good taste—but I have my doubts.
“I have come alone to London; you may guess my reasons. I badly needed a little freedom which, so far, I have never been able to get. Not one coup d’état but a whole series was necessary before I succeeded in shaking off my bonds. Yet now, although I am so busy with rehearsals, my loneliness seems very odd.
“Since I am in a confidential mood, will you believe that I had a queer little love affair in St Petersburg with a girl—now don’t laugh like a full orchestra in C major! It was poetic, heart-rending, and perfectly innocent.
“Oh, our walks! oh, the tears I shed when, like Faust’s Marguerite, she said: ‘What can you see in me—a poor girl so far beneath you?’ I thought I should die of despair when I left St Petersburg, and was really ill when I found no letter from her in Berlin. She did promise to write, probably by now she is married.
“I can picture it all again—the Neva banks, the setting sun. In a maze of passion I pressed her hand to my heart, and sang her the Love Song from Romeo.
“Ah me! not two lines since I left her.
“Good-bye; you at least will write to me.”