will rest in the oblivion of the grave and other unfortunates will also suffer and die!” ... _To_ H. FERRAND. “_November 1829._--Oh Ferrand! Ferrand! why were you not here for my concert? Yesterday I was so ill that I could not crawl; to-day the fire of hell that inspired my _Francs-Juges_ overture, courses through my veins. “All my heart, my passion, my love are in that overture. “After the crowd had dispersed the performers waited for me in the courtyard and greeted me with wild applause. At the Opera in the evening it was the same thing--a regular ferment! “My friend, my friend! Had you but been there! “But it was more than I could stand, and now I am a prey to the most awful depression and despair; tears choke me, I long to die. “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.” * * * * *