To Concert-Meister Ferdinand David, Leipzig.
Berlin, August 9th, 1841.
Dear Friend,
You wish to hear some news about the Berlin Conservatorium,—so do I,—but there is none. The affair is on the most extensive scale, if it be actually on any scale at all, and not merely in the air. The King seems to have a plan for reorganizing the Academy of Arts; this will not be easily effected, without entirely changing its present form into a very different one, which they cannot make up their mind to do; there is little use in my advising it, as I do not expect much profit for music from the Academy, either in its present or future form. The musical portion of the new academy is, I believe, to become a Conservatorium; but to reorganize one part alone, is an idea which cannot be entertained under any circumstances, so it depends now on the three others. A director is not yet found for the architectural department, and in the four different departments the existing members cannot (or at least will not) be superseded, or their privileges diminished,—so these members must first die off; but we must die off as well as they, and whether the reorganization will then take place in the wished-for manner is the question. One service I have at all events accomplished here, in having placed these relations in a clear light, and free from all circumlocution,—so that there will be no longer any necessity to refer to these projects, or the discussions connected with them, until the obstacles are removed.
You will ask, then, what in the world do they want with me just now in Berlin? My answer is, on the one side, I really do not know; on the other, I believe that it is intended to give, during the winter, some great concerts, with the addition of all their best means, and that I am to direct them, some in church, and some in the concert hall; but whether they will ever take place seems to me very doubtful: at all events these are, in my opinion, the only projects which can or will be carried out at this time.
To President Verkenius, Cologne.
Berlin, August 14th, 1841.
Dear and esteemed Herr President,
Though so much delighted by recognizing on the address of your letter of yesterday the well-known writing, I was equally grieved by the grave and mournful tone of your words, and I cannot tell you how much the intelligence of your continued illness alarms and distresses me. It is, indeed, often the case, that in moments of indisposition, everything seems to us covered with a black veil,—that illness drags within its domain, not only the body, but also the spirit and the thoughts (thus it is always with me when I am ailing or ill), but with returning health, these mournful images are chased away. God grant this may be the case with you, and soon, too, very soon; such sorrowful moments, however, are not less distressing at the time, though they quickly pass away, and are forgotten. Would that I could do anything to make you more cheerful, or to drive away such sad thoughts! These are the moments when distance seems doubly painful; when cordially-loved and honoured friends are in suffering, and yet we must go on living apart from them, instead of being near to sympathize with them, even if unable to do them good, or to alleviate their troubles.
You say that my letters are agreeable to you. I shall therefore frequently write; let me know if I do so too often; and Heaven grant that, in return, I may soon receive good news of your recovery, from yourself, or one of your family!