Still ruminating over my idea, I wove round the viola solo a series of scenes, drawn from my memories of wanderings in the Abruzzi, which I called _Childe Harold_, as there seemed to me about the whole symphony a poetic melancholy worthy of Byron’s hero. It was first performed at my concert, 23rd November 1834, but Girard, the conductor, made a terrible hash of the _Pilgrim’s March_. However, being doubtful of my own powers, I still allowed him to direct my concerts until, after the fourth performance of _Harold_, seeing that he would not take it at the proper _tempo_, I assumed command myself, and never but once after that broke my rule of conducting my own compositions. We shall see how much cause I had to regret that one exception. _To_ HUMBERT FERRAND. “MONTMARTRE, _30th August 1834_.--You are not forgotten--not the least little bit, but you cannot know what a slave I am to hard necessity. Had it not been for those confounded newspaper articles I should have written to you a dozen times. “I will not write the usual empty phrases on your loss yet, if anything could soften the blow, it would be that your father’s death was as peaceful as one could wish. You speak of my father. He wrote kindly and quickly in answer to my letter announcing the birth of my boy. Henriette thanks you for your messages; she, too, understands the depth of our friendship. I could write all night but, as I have to tug at my galley-oar all day, I must go to sleep.” * * * * * “_30th November 1834._--I quite expected a letter from you to-day, and although I am dropping with fatigue, I must snatch half an hour to answer it. The _Symphonie Fantastique_ is out, and, as our poor Liszt has dropped a terrible lot of money over it, we arranged with Schlesinger that not one copy was to be given away. They are twenty francs. Shall I buy one for you? “Would to heaven I could send it you without all this preface, but you know we are still very straitened. My wife and I are as happy as it is possible to be, in spite of our worldly troubles, and little Louis is the dearest and sweetest of children.” * * * * * “_10th January 1835._--If I had had time I should already have begun another work I am thinking of, but I am obliged to scribble these wretched, ill-paid articles. Ah! if only art counted for something with the Government perhaps I should not be reduced to this. Never mind, I must find time somehow.” * * * * * “_April 1835._--I wrote, about a month ago, an introduction to you for a young violinist named Allard, who is on his way to Geneva.