“Why were you not there?”
“9th March.—Just a word added to what I wrote yesterday.
“A few amateurs have written me a round-robin of congratulation. The letter is a slightly altered copy of that which I wrote to Spontini twenty-two years ago about his Fernando Cortez.
“Is it not a pretty idea to apply to me what I said to him so long ago?”
To Madame Massart.
“3rd September 1866.—Such a misfortune, dear madame! This morning—yes, really only this morning—I composed the most clever and complimentary letter to you—a master-piece of delicate, dainty flattery. Then I went to sleep and—when I awoke it was all gone, and I am reduced to mere commonplaces.
“I will not speak of the boredom you must be suffering in your little card-board bandbox by the sea, lest I should drive you to commit suicide—by no means a suitable way out of the difficulty for a pretty woman!
“Yet, what on earth are you to do?
“You have gone the round of Beethoven over and over again; you have read Homer; you know some of Shakespeare’s best works; you see the sea every day; you have friends and a husband who worships you.
“Great heavens, what is to become of you?