Leipzig, August 10th, 1840.
On Thursday I gave an organ concert here in the Thomas Church, from the proceeds of which old Sebastian Bach is to have a monument erected to his memory in front of the Thomas School. I gave it solissimo, and played nine pieces, winding up with an extempore fantasia. This was the whole programme. Although my expenses were considerable, I had a clear gain of three hundred dollars. I mean to try this again in the autumn or spring, and then a very handsome memorial may be put up.[40] I practised hard for eight days previously, till I could really scarcely stand upright, and nothing was heard all day long in my street but organ passages!
To Fanny Hensel, Berlin.
Leipzig, October 24th, 1840.
Dear Fanny,
I make use of my first morning’s leisure since my return from England, to thank you for your most admirable and charming letter, which welcomed me on my return here. When I first saw it lying, and broke the seal, I had somehow a kind of presentiment that it might contain some bad news—(I mean, something momentous). I don’t know how this was, but the very first lines made me see it in a very different light, and I read on and on with the greatest delight. What a pleasure it is to receive such a letter, with such a flavour of life and joy, and all that is good! The only tone in a minor key, is that you do not expect to like Berlin much after Rome; but this I consider a very transitory feeling; after a long sojourn in Italy where could any one be contented? There, all is so glowing! and our dear German home life, which I do so heartily love, has this in common with all that is German and dear, that it is neither splendid nor brilliant, but its stillness and repose only the more surely fascinate the heart. After every absence I felt just the same when the joy of the first days of reunion were past; I missed the variety and the excitement of travelling so much, that home seemed sadly monotonous, and I discovered all sorts of deficiencies, whereas during my journey all was perfect, and all was good. The same feelings have often recurred to me recently at the Leipzig Liedertafel, and at the innumerable demands and intrusions, etc. etc.; but this did not last, and was certainly only a fallacy. All that is good, and that we like in our travels, is, in fact, our wonted property at home, only we there exact a still larger portion. If we could only preserve through life the fresh, contented, and lofty tone of feeling which, for the first few days on returning from a journey, leads us to look at every object with such satisfaction, and on the journey makes us rise superior to all annoyances; if we could only remain inwardly in this buoyant travelling spirit, while continuing to live in the quiet of home,—we should indeed be vastly perfect! Instead of this, last night, at the twenty-fifth anniversary of the Liedertafel, I was as angry as if I had been a young boy. They sang so false, and talked even more falsely; and when it became peculiarly tiresome, it was in the name of “our German Fatherland,” or “in the good old German fashion.” Yet, when I came back from England I had formed such a strong resolution never to discompose myself about anything, and to remain entirely neutral![41] I was eight days in London, and the same in Birmingham, and to me the period passed like a troubled dream; but nothing could be more gratifying than meeting with so many friends quite unchanged. Although I could only see them for so short a time, yet the glimpse into so friendly an existence, of which we hear nothing for years, but which remains still linked with our own, and will ever continue to be so, causes most pleasurable sensations.
Of course I was constantly with Klingemann and Moscheles, and with the Alexanders also, where, in the most elegant rococo drawing-rooms, among all the newest and most fashionable objects, I found my father’s portrait, painted by Hensel, in its old favourite place, and standing on its own little table; and I was with the Horsleys also, and in many other houses where I felt happy and at home; when I recall my excessive uneasiness at the prospect of the journey, and how we paced up and down here together and discussed it, making each other, in fact, only mutually more nervous, and yet all is now so happily over, and I so happily returned to my family,—I ought scarcely to do anything all day long but rejoice and be thankful,—instead of which I fly into a passion with the Liedertafel, and you do the same with the Art Exhibition!
You ask me whether we are to have peace or war? How have I got such a fine reputation as a newsmonger? Not that I do not deserve it, for I maintain through thick and thin that we shall have peace, but combined with much warlike agitation; though when a politicus by profession like Paul is in the family, he must be applied to. He may say what he likes, but no war shall we have.
Though, when I think of yesterday’s Liedertafel, I almost wish we had!
Pray write again soon, my very dear Sister, and a long letter.—Your