“St Petersburg, 22/10 December 1867.—Dear Madame Massart,—I am ill with eighteen horse power; I cough like six donkeys with the glanders; yet, before I retire to bed, I want to write to you.
“All goes well here.
“At the fifth concert I want to give Beethoven’s Choral Symphony, at least the first three parts, I am afraid to risk the vocal part as I am not sufficiently sure of my chorus.
“I have been invited to Moscow and the Grand Duchess permits me to go.
“The gentlemen of the semi-Asiatic capital propound the most irresistible arguments tace Wieniawski, who does not wish me to jump at their offer. But I never could haggle and should be ashamed to do so now.
“I have just been interrupted by a message from the Grand Duchess. She has a musical soirée to-night and wishes to hear the duet from Beatrice. Her pianist and two singers know it perfectly in French, so I have sent the score, with a message to them not to be nervous as they will get through all right.
“I shall go back to bed. I would tell you a lot more but I am tired out and am not used to being up at such unreasonable hours.
“It is half-past nine. I shall take some laudanum to be sure of sleep.
“You know that you are charming. But why the devil are you so charming? Farewell, I am your
H. B.”