Paris, February 4th, 1832.
You will, I am sure, excuse my writing you only a few words to-day:
it was but yesterday that I heard of my irreparable loss.[31] Many
hopes, and a pleasant bright period of my life have departed with
him, and I never again can feel so happy. I must now set about
forming new plans, and building fresh castles in the air; the
former ones are irrevocably gone, for he was interwoven with them
all. I shall never be able to think of my boyish days, nor of the
ensuing ones, without connecting him with them, and I had hoped,
till now, that it might be the same for the future. I must
endeavour to inure myself to this, but I can recall no one thing
without being reminded of him; I shall never hear music, or write
it, without thinking of him; all this makes the rending asunder of
such a tie doubly distressing. The former epoch has now wholly
passed away, but not only do I lose that, but also the man I so
sincerely loved. If I never had any especial reason for loving him,
or if I no longer had such reasons, I must have loved him all the
same, even without a reason. He loved me too, and the knowledge
that there was such a man in the world--one on whom you could
repose, and who lived to love you, and whose wishes and aims were
identical with your own--this is all over: it is the most severe
blow I have ever received, and never can I forget him.
[31] The death of his friend Edward Ritz, the violin player.
This was the celebration of my birthday. When I was listening to
Baillot on Tuesday, and said to Hiller that I only knew one man who
could play the music I loved for me, L---- was standing beside me,
and knew what had happened, but did not give me the letter. He was
not aware indeed that yesterday was my birthday, but he broke it to
me by degrees yesterday morning, and then I recalled previous
anniversaries, and took a review of the past, as every one should
on his birthday; I remembered how invariably on this day he arrived
with some special gift which he had long thought of, and which was
always as pleasing and agreeable and welcome as himself. The day
was a melancholy one to me: I could neither do anything, nor think
of anything, but the one subject.
To-day I have compelled myself to work, and succeeded. My overture
in A minor is finished. I think of writing some pieces here, which
will be well remunerated.
I beg you will tell me every particular about him, and every
detail, no matter how trifling; it will be a comfort to me to hear
of him once more. The octett parts, so neatly copied by him, are
lying before me at this moment, and remind me of him. I hope
shortly to recover my usual equanimity, and to be able to write to
you in better spirits and more at length. A new chapter in my life
has begun, but as yet it has no title. Your