“PARIS, _November 1828_.[5] “Forgive me for not writing sooner; I was so ill, so stupid, it was better to wait. “La Fontaine might well say: ‘Absence is the greatest of ills.’ She is gone; this time to Bordeaux and I live no more; or rather I live too acutely, for I suffer, hourly, the agonies of death. I can hardly drag through my work. “You know that I am appointed Superintendent of the Gymnase-Lyrique and have to choose or replace the players and to take care of instruments, parts and scores. “Subscribers are coming in; so are malicious anonymous letters. Cherubini sits on the fence wondering whether to help or to hinder us, and we go calmly on. “I have not seen Châteaubriand; he is in the country, but I will speak of your piece directly I do.” “_End of 1828._ “Do you know M. d’Eckstein, and can you give me an introduction to him? I hear that he is connected with a new and powerful paper,[6] in which Art is to be given prominence. If I am considered good enough, I should like to be musical correspondent. Help me if you can.” Another landmark in my life was the reading of Goethe’s _Faust_; I could not lay it down, but read and read and read--at table, in the streets, in the theatres. Although a prose translation, songs and rhymed pieces were scattered throughout, and these I set to music, then, without having heard a note of them, was crazy enough to have them engraved. A few copies, under the title of _Eight Scenes from Faust_ were sold in Paris, and one fell into the hands of M. Marx, the great Berlin critic, who wrote most kindly to me about it. This unexpected encouragement from such a source gave me real pleasure, particularly as the writer did not dwell too much on my many and great faults. I know some of the ideas were good, since I afterwards used them for the _Damnation de Faust_, but I know, also, how hopelessly crude and badly written they were. As soon as I realised this, I collected and burnt all the copies I could lay hands on. Under Goethe’s influence I wrote my _Symphonie Fantastique_--very slowly and laboriously in some parts, incredibly quickly and easily in others. The _Scène aux Champs_ worried me for three weeks, over and over again I gave it up, but the _Marche au Supplice_ was dashed off in a single night. Of course they were afterwards touched and retouched. Bloc, being anxious that my new symphony should be heard, suggested that I should be allowed to give a concert at the Théâtre des Nouveautés. The directors, attracted by the eccentricity of my work, agreed, and I invited eighty performers to help, in addition to Bloc’s orchestra. On my making enquiries about accommodation for such an army of executants the manager replied, with the calm assurance of ignorance: