“_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! “I wish the theatre people would somehow plot to get _her_ there--that wretched woman! But she certainly would not go if she read my programme. She could not but recognise herself. What will people say? My story is so well known.” At this time a new influence came into my life which, for a time, eclipsed my Shakespearian passion. Hiller, the German composer-pianist, whom I had known intimately ever since his arrival in Paris, fell violently in love with Marie Moke, a beautiful and talented girl, who, later on, became one of our greatest pianists. Her interest in me was aroused by Hiller’s account of my mental sufferings, and--so Fate willed--we were thrown much together at a boarding-school where we both gave lessons--she on the piano and I on--the guitar! Odd though it be, I still figure in the prospectus of Madame d’Aubré as professor of that noble instrument. Meeting Mademoiselle Moke constantly, her dainty beauty and bewitching mockery of my high-tragedy airs and dismal visage soon turned my thoughts from my absorbing passion and won her a shrine in my heart. She was but eighteen! Hiller, poor fellow, behaved admirably. He recognised that it was Fate, not treachery on my part and, heart-broken as he was, he wished me every happiness and left for Frankfort. This is all I need say of this violent interlude that, by stirring my senses, turned me aside for a while from the mighty love that really held my heart. In my Italian journey I will tell of the dramatic sequel. Mademoiselle Moke nearly proved the proverb that it is not well to play with fire! * * * * * In 1830 the Competition took place later than usual--on the 15th July. For the fifth time I went up, firmly resolved, if I should fail, to go no more.