“30th June 1867.—A terrible grief has fallen upon me. My poor boy, at thirty-three captain of a fine vessel, has just died at Havana.”

 

“15th July 1867.—Just a few words, since you ask for them; but it is wrong of me to sadden you too.

“I am so much worse that I am really hardly alive and have barely sense enough to grasp poor Louis’ business affairs; fortunately one of his friends is helping me. Thanks for your letter; forgive my stupidity. I am fit for nothing but sleep.

“Adieu, adieu!”

“Paris, 24th September 1867.—Dear Madame Damcke,—I should have written sooner had I known your address, therefore double thanks for your letter.

“My answer is short; I am as ill as usual.

“After my fifth bath at Néris the doctor, hearing me speak, felt my pulse and cried:

“‘Be off out of this as fast as you can; the waters are the worst possible for you, you are on the verge of laryngitis. Confound it all, it is really serious.’

“So off I went the same evening and was nearly choked by a fit of coughing in the train.

“My nieces at Vienne nursed me devotedly but, when my throat got better, back came my neuralgia more fiendishly than ever.

“I stayed long enough to see my elder niece married. Thirty-three relations came from all parts to the wedding—but one, alas! was missing.

“The one I most rejoiced to see was my old uncle, the colonel. He is eighty-four. We both wept on meeting; he seemed almost ashamed of still being alive—how much more, then, should I!

“I spend most of my time in bed, but the Grand Duchess Helen is coaxing me to get up and go to St Petersburg. She wishes to see me and I have agreed to go on the 15th November and conduct six concerts. Best wishes to you both.”

“Paris, 4th October 1867.—Yes, it is quite true. I am going to Russia. The Grand Duchess Helen was here the other day and made me such generous proposals that, after some hesitation, I accepted. I am to conduct six Conservatoire concerts; five of the grandest works of the great masters and the sixth entirely of my own compositions.

“I am to have rooms in her palace and the use of one of her carriages; she pays all my travelling expenses and gives me fifteen thousand francs.

“I shall be tired to death—ill as I am already. Will you not come too? You should play your jovial Bach concerto in D minor and we would enjoy ourselves.

“Three days ago an American,[33] hearing that I had accepted the Russian engagement, came and offered me a hundred thousand francs to go to New York next year. What do you think of that? Meanwhile, he has had a bronze bust of me cast, to place in a splendid hall that he has built over there.

“If I were younger it would please me greatly.

“My mother-in-law thanks you for your kind messages. Are you not ashamed of slaughtering pheasants? It is a noble thing, forsooth, to go out into the poultry yard and kill off the chickens!!! Despite all, my friendship holds good, faithful and warm. Each day I appreciate more thoroughly your loving hearts.”

“Paris, 2nd November 1867.—How are you, my lord and my lady?

“How is your house?

“Have you forgotten your French?

“Have you forgotten your music?

“Have you forgotten how to write?

“Have you forgotten that you hear of nothing?

“Have you forgotten that we have forgotten you?

“Can you believe that we get on perfectly well without you?

“Can you believe that you are....

“Out of fashion?

“Good-night.”

 

“2nd November.—Day of the dead, and, when one is dead, one is dead for a long, long time.”

“22nd October 1867.—Dear Humbert,—Here is the letter you asked me to return. Only a line to-day as I took laudanum last night and have not had time yet to sleep it off. I had to get up this morning to do some necessary business.

“So now back to bed. A thousand greetings.”

“St Petersburg, 15th December 1867.—Dear friends,—How kind of you to send me your news; it seems neglectful of me not to have done the same ere this.

“I am loaded with favour by everyone—from the Grand Duchess down to the least member of the orchestra.

“They found out that the 11th was my birthday and sent me delightful presents. In the evening I was asked to a banquet of a hundred and fifty guests where, as you may imagine, I was well toasted. Both public and press are most eulogistic. At the second concert I was recalled six times after the Symphonie Fantastique, which was executed with tremendous spirit and the last part of which was encored.

“What an orchestra! what ensemble! what precision! I wonder if Beethoven ever heard anything like it. In spite of my pain, as soon as I reach the conductor’s desk and am surrounded by these sympathetic souls, I revive and I believe am conducting now as I never did before.

“Yesterday we did the second act of Orfeo, the C. minor Symphony and my Carnaval Romain. All was grandly done. The girl who sang Orfeo in Russian had an unequalled voice and sang well too.

“These poor Russians only knew Gluck from mutilated fragments, so you may imagine my pleasure in drawing aside the curtain that hid his mighty genius.

“In a fortnight we are to do the first act of Alcestis. The Grand Duchess has ordered that I am to be implicitly obeyed; I do not abuse her order, but I use it.

“She has asked me to go some day and read her Hamlet, and the other day I happened to speak to her ladies-in-waiting, in her presence, of Saint-Victor’s book and now they are all rushing off to buy and admire Hommes et Dieux.

“Here they love the beautiful; they live for literature and music; they have within them a constant flame that makes them lose consciousness of the frost and the snow.

“Why am I so old, so worn-out?

“Good-bye all. I love you and press your hands.”

“St Petersburg, 22/10 December 1867.—Dear Madame Massart,—I am ill with eighteen horse power; I cough like six donkeys with the glanders; yet, before I retire to bed, I want to write to you.

“All goes well here.

“At the fifth concert I want to give Beethoven’s Choral Symphony, at least the first three parts, I am afraid to risk the vocal part as I am not sufficiently sure of my chorus.

“I have been invited to Moscow and the Grand Duchess permits me to go.

“The gentlemen of the semi-Asiatic capital propound the most irresistible arguments tace Wieniawski, who does not wish me to jump at their offer. But I never could haggle and should be ashamed to do so now.

“I have just been interrupted by a message from the Grand Duchess. She has a musical soirée to-night and wishes to hear the duet from Beatrice. Her pianist and two singers know it perfectly in French, so I have sent the score, with a message to them not to be nervous as they will get through all right.

“I shall go back to bed. I would tell you a lot more but I am tired out and am not used to being up at such unreasonable hours.

“It is half-past nine. I shall take some laudanum to be sure of sleep.

“You know that you are charming. But why the devil are you so charming? Farewell, I am your

H. B.”

“18th January 1868.

“Dear Madame Massart,—I found quite a pile of letters on my return from Moscow, among them one that gave me even greater pleasure than yours; you can guess from whom it came.

“Yours, nevertheless, rejoices me too.

“The Michael Square is noiseless under its snowy mantle; crows, pigeons and sparrows stir not; sledges have ceased to run; there is a great funeral—that of Prince Dolgorouki—at which the Emperor and all the Court were present.

“My programme for Saturday is settled.

“Oh! the joy when I lay down my baton at the end of Harold and say:

“‘In three days I start for Paris.’

“I cannot stand this climate, although I felt better in Moscow. Such enthusiasm there!

“The first concert was in the Riding School and there were ten thousand six hundred people present. And when they applauded the Offertory from my Requiem, with its two-note chorus, I must own that the uncommon religious feeling shown by that mighty crowd, went to my heart.

“Do not speak of a concert in Paris.

“If I gave one to my friends and spent three thousand francs over it I should only be the more reviled by the press.

“After seeing you I shall go right on to St Symphorien and thence to Monaco to roll in the violets and sleep in the sun.

“I suffer so continually, dear lady; my paroxysms of pain are so frequent that I cannot think what is to become of me.

“I do not want to die now, for I have something to live for.”[35]

“Paris, 1st March 1868.—I did not write sooner, I was too ill. And now I want to tell you that I am leaving for Monaco at seven this evening.

“I cannot imagine why I do not die.

“But since I am living, I am going to see my dear Nice, the rocks of Villefranche and the sun of Monaco.

“I hear that the sculptor is having three copies of my New York bust cast; was it you who suggested getting one for the St Petersburg Conservatoire? More can easily be made.

“Address your letters to me to 4 Rue de Calais, Paris, and they will be forwarded.

“Oh! to think that I shall soon be lying on the marble seats of Monaco, in the sun, by the sea!!

“Do not be too severely just to me. Write me long letters in return for my short ones; bethink you that I am ill, that your letters do me good; don’t talk nonsense and don’t speak of my composing....

“My kindest regards to your charming sister-in-law and daughter and to your brother. I can see them all so vividly before me. Write soon. Your letter and the Sun will give me new life.

“Unfortunate wight that you are! You live in the snow!”

“Paris, April 1868.

“My Dear Stassoff,—You call me Monsieur Berlioz, both you and Cui. I forgive you both!

“I was nearly killed the other day. I went to Monaco sun-hunting and, three days after in scrambling down the rocks, I fell head first on to my face and bled so profusely that, for a long time, I was unable to get up and go back to the hotel.

“However, as I had taken my place in the omnibus to Nice, I was bound to get up and go back there next day.

“Hardly arrived there, I wished to see once more the terrace by the sea, of which my recollection was so vivid. I went down and sat there but, in changing my seat, again I fell on my face. Two passers-by lifted me with great difficulty and took me to the Hotel des Etrangers, where I was staying, which was close by. I was put to bed and there I stayed, without a doctor, seeing no one but the servants for a week.

“Feeling a little better after my week’s seclusion and damaged as I was, I took the train back to Paris.

“My mother-in-law and servant exclaimed with horror on seeing me; but now I have had a doctor and he has treated me so cleverly that, after more than a month of it, I can barely walk, holding on to the furniture.

“My nose is nearly all right outside.

“Would you kindly find out why my score of the Trojans has not been returned. I suppose the copying is finished and that it is no longer needed.

“I can write no more ... if I wait till I am better it may be a long while.... Do write to me. It will be a real charity.”

“Paris, 26th May 1868.—I have been greatly tried and find it still hard to write. My two falls, one at Monaco, the other at Nice, have taken all my strength.

“The traces are almost gone now, but my old trouble has come back and I suffer more than ever.

“I wish I could have seen you and Lecourt when I was near Marseilles; I should have gone round that way had I not been in such a sad state.

“Yet to meet you would have upset me more than to see anyone else. Few of my friends loved Louis as you did. I cannot forget it, so you must forgive me.”

“Paris, 21st August 1868.

“Dear Stassoff,—You see I leave out the Monsieur.

“I have just come from Grenoble, where they had almost forced me to go and preside at a sort of musical festival and to be present at the unveiling of a statue of Napoleon I.

“They ate and drank and did a hundred and fifty other things and I felt so ill....

“They fetched me in a carriage and toasted me, but I could not reply. The Mayor of Grenoble was full of compliments, he presented me with a gilt crown, but I had to sit a whole hour at that banquet.

“Next day I left and arrived home at eleven at night, more dead than alive.

“I feel good for nothing and I get such letters—asking me to do impossibilities. They want me to say nice things of a German artist, which is right enough since I agree thoroughly, but at the expense of a Russian artist of whom I think well also and whom they want to oust in favour of the German.

“I cannot lend myself to it. What a devil of a world this is!

“I feel that I am dying; I believe in nothing; but I long to see you, you might perhaps cheer me up—you and Cui. I am beyond measure bored and weary. All my friends are away in the country or shooting. They ask me to go and visit them, but I have not the spirit.

“Write, I beg; as shortly as you will, but write! I still feel the effects of my Monaco and Nice accidents.

“If you are in St Petersburg write me even six lines, I shall be so grateful.

“You are so kind; show it now.

“I press your hands.”