To Paul Mendelssohn Bartholdy.
Leipzig, December 22nd, 1842.[64]
My dear Brother,
I wrote to you the day after our arrival here that we were all well, and living in our sorrow as we best could, dwelling on the happiness we once possessed. My letter was addressed to Fanny, but written to you all; though it seems you had not heard of it, and even this trifle shows, what will day by day be more deeply and painfully felt by us,—that the point of union is now gone, where even as children we could always meet; and though we were no longer so in years, we felt that we were still so in feeling. When I wrote to my Mother, I knew that I wrote to you all, and you knew it too; we are children no longer, but we have enjoyed what it really is to be so. Now, this is gone for ever! At such a time, with regard to outward things, we are as if in a dark room, groping to find the way, hour after hour. Tell me if we cannot arrange that I should write to one of you by turns once every week, and get an answer from you, so that we may at least hear of each other every three weeks, independent of more frequent letters; or say whether any better arrangement occurs to you. I thank you a thousand times for your kind question about the house. I had thought of asking you for it, and now you offer it to me. But before we finally settle this, I should like you to bring the subject cautiously on the tapis, in the presence of our sisters and brother-in-law. If you perceive that any unpleasant feeling is awakened in their minds by such a proposal, when for the first time, in Berlin, I am not to live under the same roof with them, and if they give any indication of such a feeling, even by a single word or remark, (you will quickly observe this, and I rely entirely on you,) then we must give it up. In any other event, I shall thankfully accept your kindness. My next visit to Berlin will be a severe trial to me; indeed, all I say and do is a trial to me,—anything, in short, that is not mere patient endurance. I have, however, begun to work again, and that is the only thing which occupies me a little. Happily, I have some half-mechanical work to do,—transcribing, instrumentation, and similar things. This can be accomplished by a kind of almost animal instinct, which we can follow, and which does us more good than if we had it not. But yesterday I was obliged to direct. That was terrible. They told me that the first time would be terrible, but sooner or later it must be done. I thought so too, but I would fain have waited for a few weeks. The first thing was a song of Rochlitz’s; but when in the rehearsal the alto sang, piano, “Wie der Hirsch schreit,”[65] I was so overcome, that I was obliged afterwards to go out of the room, to give free vent to my tears.
To-day, Heaven be praised, I am not required to see or speak to any one, and my cough is better. Thus time glides on; but what we have once possessed is not less precious, and what we have now lost not less painful with time. Farewell, dearest Brother. Continue to love me.—Your
Felix.