Your

F. LISZT.



153.

DEAR, DEAR FRANZ,

I can never complain to you again. I go on worrying you with my
confidences in a sinful manner, while you keep your own grief to
yourself. My troublesome candour knows no bounds; every drop of
the fount of my sorrow I pour out before you, and--I must hope
that that is the very reason why you are so silent as to your own
circumstances. But I begin to feel that the best remedy for our
sufferings is sympathy with those of others. My only sorrow today
is that you hide your grief from my sympathy. Are you really too
proud to let me know, or do you refrain from giving me back the
painful impression I made on you with my complaints, because you
were unable to assist me? Be it so, dear friend; if you do not
feel the want of making a clean breast of it all, be silent! But
if you do feel such a want, then esteem me worthy of listening to
your grief. Do not think me as weak as I may appear to be. My
difficulty lies in the abominable meanness of my situation; but
of that I can take a larger view if some strong sympathy induces
me to break with my habit of thought. I think I have said enough.
If more were needed, even this would have been too much.

Assume henceforth that all is right with me; that I have no other