We are all well, and continue to live the same quiet life that you enjoyed with us here. It was, indeed, most solitary the first days after you left us, when each of us went about with dismal faces, as if we had forgotten something, or were looking for something,—and it was so, indeed! Since then, I have begun to write music very busily; the three elder children work with me in the forenoon; in the afternoon, when the weather permits, we all take a walk together; and I have also finished a few rabid sketches in Indian ink. Herr Kohl came here yesterday, the Irish and Russian traveller, and spent the evening with us; also, Mr. Grote,[93] whom I always am very glad to see and to listen to; but I now feel so tranquil in this quiet retirement, and so little tranquil with a number of people, that I do all I can to avoid what is called society, and as yet I have succeeded in this. Why were you not with me in Boningen? you would indeed have been pleased! and in Wilderschwyl, and Unspunnen besides? This alone would be a sufficient reason for your returning here as soon as you can. We have not, however, once had fine weather since the day of your departure, and often very bad; there has been no further question, since then, of sitting under the walnut-trees, and many days we were unable to leave the house. Still we always took advantage of the hours that were fair for all kinds of expeditions; and wherever you turn your steps here, it is always splendid. If the weather becomes more settled, I mean to go over the Susten, and to the summit of the Sidelhorn, which can be done from here in a few days. But to carry this resolution into effect seems by no means easy; it is so lovely here, and we so much enjoy our regular, quiet life. It has enabled me once more to become often quite cheerful; but when people come, and talk at random about commonplace matters, and of God and the world, my mood becomes again so unutterably mournful, that I do not know how to endure it. You are obliged to surmount such feelings, to the utmost extent; and I think of this every day. It must be hard on you, and I shrink from the idea of it myself. But it must be so, and it is right, so with the help of God, it can be done. All send heartfelt greetings; and ever continue to love your
Felix.
To General von Webern, Berlin.
Interlachen, August 15, 1847.
My dear, kind Friend,
I send you a thousand thanks for your letter of the 14th of July, which had been much delayed, as I only received it here a short time ago. You have, no doubt, seen my Brother since then, and he has probably told you more minutely of my intention to visit Berlin this autumn. But I cannot delay sending you an immediate answer to your kind and friendly proposal about the three concerts, but, indeed, I would rather not at present agree to announce the three concerts (of which two were to be “Elijah”). “Elijah” has not yet been heard in Berlin, and it would not only appear presumptuous, but would really be so, if I proposed to the public to perform it twice in succession. In addition to this, my present mood makes me so decidedly disinclined for all publicity, that I have with difficulty, and chiefly through Paul’s sensible exhortations, resolved not to give up those performances to which I had already agreed. I intend, also, to fulfil my promise to Herr von Arnim about the Friedrich Stift,[94] and the 14th of October seems to me a very suitable day. If the sympathy in the work is so great that a repetition of it is expected and desired within a short period, you may imagine that this can only be a source of pleasure to me, and then I would gladly see the receipts of the second performance applied entirely according to your wish. If, in spite of this very unsatisfactory and undecided answer, you will be so kind as to assist in promoting the first performance in October, and inspiring those who have to do with it, as soon as possible, with some activity, you will do me a great service, and I shall again owe you many thanks. For I know, as you say, the difficulties consequent on the state of things there, which is very similar to the sand, and must be desperately ploughed up, before it brings forth any fruit.
Your letter to Cécile does not sound so cheerful as usual. We hope that this may have only been caused by some passing cloud, and that the sun of your gayer mood again shines as brightly as we are accustomed to see it with you. There are, to be sure, just now, very dense misty fogs, if not thunder-clouds in our Fatherland, and many a day that might be bright and clear becomes thus sultry and grey, and all objects dim and dull; yet no one can strive against this, or maintain that they see the bright colours and forms which genuine sunshine brings; and, indeed, vivid lightning and loud thunder out of the black cloud, are sometimes preferable to vague mists and foggy abysses. Every one suffers from them, but these mists do not yet absorb the light, and cannot fail to be dispersed at last. That no personal reason, no illness of your family or yourself, or any other serious cause may exist for your depression, is what we wish!
My wife and children are well, God be praised! We walk a great deal, the children do their lessons, Cécile paints Alpine roses, and I write music, so the days pass monotonously and quickly. Preserve your regard for me as I ever shall for you, for ever and ever.—Your friend,
Felix M. B.