“Good-bye; I have been invited to Breslau to conduct Romeo and Juliet, but I must get back to Paris before the end of the month.”
To Humbert Ferrand.
“Paris, 11th January 1867.—It is midnight, dear friend. I write in bed, as usual; you will read my letter in bed—also as usual.
“Your last letter hurt me; I read the suffering between the lines. I wanted to reply at once, but my tortures, medical stupidity, doses of laudanum (all useless and productive only of evil dreams), prevented me.
“I see now how difficult it will be for us to meet. You cannot stir, and for three quarters of the year I cannot either. What are we to do?
“My journey to Vienna nearly made an end of me—even the warmth of their enthusiasm could not protect me from the rigours of their winter. This awful climate will be the death of me.
“Dear Louis writes of his morning rides in the forests of Martinique, and describes the lovely tropical vegetation—the real hot sun. That is what you and I both need.
“Dear friend, the dull rumbling of passing carriages breaks the silence of the night. Paris is damp, cold, and muddy—Parisian Paris!
“Now all is still; it sleeps the sleep of the unrighteous.
“Have you the full score of my Mass for the Dead? If I were threatened with the destruction of all that I have ever written, it would be for that Mass that I should beg life.