“Why were you not there, dear friend, faithful champion? I thought of and longed for you.
“At that wild trombone and ophicleide solo in the Francs-Juges, one of the first violins shouted:
“‘The rainbow is the bow of your violin, the winds play your organ and the seasons beat time!’
“Whereupon the whole orchestra started applauding a thought of which they could not possibly grasp the extent. The drummer by my side seized my arm, ejaculating, ‘Superb—sublime,’ while I tore my hair and longed to shriek:
“‘Monstrous! Gigantic! Horrible!’
“All the opera people were present, and there was no end to the congratulations. The most pleased were Habeneck, Dérivis, Dupont, Mademoiselle Mori, Hérold, etc. Nothing was lacking to my success—not even the criticisms of Panseron and Brugnières, who say my style is new and bad, and that such writing is not to be encouraged.
“My dear, dear fellow! in pity send me an opera. How can I write without a book? For heaven’s sake finish something!”
“June.—All day long I have been tearing about the country, leagues upon leagues, and I still live. I feel so lonely! Send me something to work at, some bone to gnaw! The country was lovely; the people all looked happy. In the flooding light the trees rustled softly; but, oh! I was alone—all alone in that wide plain. Space, time, oblivion, pain and rage held me in their terrific grasp. Struggle wildly as I might, life seemed to escape me; I held but a few pitiful fragments in my trembling hands.
“Oh! the horror, at my age and with my temperament, to have these harrowing delusions, and, with them, the miserable persecutions of my family! My father has again stopped my allowance; my sister writes to-day that he is immovable. Oh, for money! money! Money does bring happiness.
“Still ... my heart beats as if with joy, the blood courses through my veins.