“After all, there will be a small profit—about a hundred and fifty francs, of which I must give two-thirds to Gounet, who so kindly lent it me—I think he is more in need than you. But my debt to you troubles me, and as soon as I can get together enough to be worth sending, you shall have it.” ...
“December.—I am bored! wretched! That is nothing new, but I get more and more soul-weary, more utterly bored as time goes on. I devour time as ducks gobble water, in order to live and, like the ducks, I find nothing but a few scrubby insects for nourishment. What will become of me! What shall I do!”
To H. Ferrand.
“January 1830.—I do not know where to turn for money. I have only two pupils, they bring me in forty-four francs a month; I still owe you money besides the hundred francs to Gounet—this eternal penury, these constant debts, even to such old and tried friends as you, weigh on me terribly. Then again your father still nurses the mistaken idea that I am a gambler—I, who never touch a card and have never set foot in a gaming house—and the thought that he disapproves of our friendship nearly drives me mad. For pity’s sake, write soon!”
“February.—Again, without warning and without reason, my ill-starred passion wakes. She is in London, yet I feel her presence ever with me. I listen to the beating of my heart, it is like a sledge-hammer, every nerve in my body quivers with pain.
“Woe upon her! Could she but dream of the poetry, the infinite bliss of such love as mine, she would fly to my arms, even though my embrace should be her death.
“I was just going to begin my great symphony (Episode in an Artist’s Life) to depict the course of this infernal love of mine—but I can write nothing.”
“May.—Your letter comforts me, dear friend, how good it is to be blessed with a friend such as you! A man of heart, of soul, of imagination! How rare that kindred spirits such as ours should meet and sympathise.
“Words fail to tell the joy your affection gives me. You need not fear for me with Henriette Smithson. I am no longer in danger in that quarter; I pity and despise her. She is nothing but a commonplace woman with an instinct for expressing the tortures of the soul that she has never felt; she is quite incapable of appreciating the noble, all-devouring love with which I honoured her.
“The rehearsals of my symphony begin in three days; all the parts are copied—there are two thousand three hundred pages. I hope to goodness we shall have good receipts to pay for it all. The concert takes place on the 30th May. And you alone will not be there! Even my father wishes to come. Ah, my symphony!